For the Dream of Freedom
by dferveiro
Summary: The dream of peace and freedom are interrupted when Arthur is held captive by Saxons. Tristan goes to rescue him, for the first time afraid that he might fail. A dramatic Tristan-adventure and romance.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: A fellow writer got me thinking about King Arthur and writing again, so thanks for that, Mandamirra! This isn't connected to my other King Arthur fics, but assume that this is after Arthur is made king, and that Tristan survived, while Lancelot did not. Bors won't be in here either, but let's just say he moved on to rule his family elsewhere. I finally needed to stretch creatively and write something, so pardon my long absence. Thanks!

0-0-0-0

The rocks were vastly unpleasant to grip, but Tristan held tight anyway—his life depended on it. He pressed his frame against the cliff's face, hoping his fingers wouldn't go numb. The waterfall next to him drowned out all other noise as it spilled into the river below. That river was a long way down . . . .

Tristan climbed down further, just getting new footing in the rocky cliff when his fingers slipped from their hold. He over-compensated in grabbing for the rocks, only to make his boots slip too. And he fell.

The spray from the waterfall was at fault, he decided, just as he hit a part of the cliff that stuck out and broke his fall. His breath left him with the impact. Tristan clawed at the rocks, feelings chunks tear up his nails and skin. He didn't feel any pain though. Two more important things were on his mind: stopping his fall, and rescuing Arthur.

He stopped his fall with a grunt, wincing when that pain in his hands started to flare up. His body dangled from the natural ledge. Glancing around, he saw another spot to step to, hopefully with more success than his last. He could see a dark opening to a cave behind the waterfall, not too much further down.

It was five days ago that Arthur had been captured by Saxons. And then the attack came, a rebuilt Saxon army, placed to tear down Arthur's kingdom in his absence. With the threat against the kingdom and all the people at the Wall (not to mention everyone else throughout the land), Britain could not focus solely on restoring Arthur to the throne. This was unacceptable to Tristan and the knights.

And after some heated deliberation, Gawain and Galahad saw what must be done. They remained to defend the fort and drive back the Saxons. Tristan went on to find Arthur alone.

Tristan leapt towards that dark hole behind the waterfall. The spray pounded him, forcing him down, but he cut through enough and hit the floor of the cave that lay behind the falls. He rolled too far, into the cave's wall, and the brunt of his impact made him groan. He stilled, hoping no one had heard him. Listening, he seemed to be alone still. He got to his feet.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, enough that he could see blood glistening on his raw hands. He frowned; that could hinder him later. Tristan ripped some of his tunic and wrapped it around each hand.

And then, Tristan moved deeper into the cave.

Tristan figured Arthur was alive. A message from the Saxons included the demand that the Britons surrender to receive their king back unharmed. Of course that would never happen—it flew in the face of all that Arthur stood for. Gawain, in their debate before he left, told Tristan he feared Arthur would be killed if they refused. It was a risk, but Tristan knew Arthur was alive.

Arthur's god would keep him alive. And besides, Tristan knew his king and commander would outlive him by far.

His footsteps sounded wet. They echoed in the cave. Tristan slowed his pace to be quiet. He came to a fork in the cave. He stopped, hoping to hear something to help direct—

Suddenly a man appeared, scratching his chest with a yawn. His eyes met Tristan's, and he froze.

Tristan dove at him, clapping his hand over the Saxon's mouth while yanking hard to the side, hoping to have enough force in his motion to snap the man's neck. The Saxon groaned, but the sound grew louder. He struggled against the scout. Tristan grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head to the ground.

The Saxon stopped moving. For good measure, Tristan repeated the action and then stabbed him.

He stood and went the way the Saxon guard had come.

0-0-0-0

Blood dripped from his lip. It pooled into a nice spot on the uneven ground. One of his captors hit him again, making Arthur's head whip to the side. He fought back any sound of discomfort.

The Saxons laughed at something another said. Arthur gave up trying to understand; he didn't really care at this point.

His hands were bound behind him. His feet were bound together too and behind him, hog-tied to his hands. He lay on the ground, although the Saxons kept sitting him up to kneel so they could hit him better. One grabbed him now, bringing him back up to his knees.

"Command your people to surrender, and you'll be set free," one said clearly enough. Arthur didn't even glare at him. The Saxons laughed, and Arthur was struck again.

His jaw jarred against the ground when he fell. For a moment, his vision faded out, and in the blackness of his mind, he saw Guinevere surrounded by his knights, protecting her against an army. As frightening as the impending attack was, the knights' presence comforted him.

He let himself slip away, for now.

0-0-0-0

Thirteen guards remained inside the cave. Tristan had stumbled on one more as he moved through the cave, but he managed to kill him cleanly. The rest were well positioned towards the main entrance of the cave, but weren't aware of the way through from the waterfall. _Or maybe they are, and that's an escape route, should they need it._

He figured there would be more Saxons hidden in the woods outside the cave, just in case someone found them. When he scouted there yesterday, he saw at least two, but he stayed out of their way. He knew, depending how things went, that he'd have to lead Arthur through those Saxons. But for now, he just needed to plan.

The thirteen guards inside the cave were scattered well enough to prevent someone coming in from the front, or to keep Arthur from escaping. He had yet to see Arthur, but from the heavier cluster of Saxons coming from one vein of the cave, he could guess where he was.

Tristan crouched down in the shadowy cave. He looked back towards the way he'd come, and retreated.

0-0-0-0

He waited until nightfall, or what he figured was nightfall—the Saxons started winding down. They had already eaten, and now began laying around and drifting asleep. He wondered that the men he'd slain weren't missed, but he wasn't complaining.

Tristan stepped over a sleeping Saxon. His steps were quiet but confident—one of the Saxons he had killed was obliging enough to lend Tristan his clothes. The disguise wasn't fool proof, but with the guards sleeping, he stood a better chance.

He made his way down the tunnel. Someone was snoring lightly ahead. Tristan glanced behind him, making sure no one followed. He drew a dagger.

Three men were in the end of the tunnel—two Saxons, by the look of them, and the only half-Roman Tristan respected. One of the Saxons was the snoring culprit. The other looked towards Tristan as he entered.

The Saxon said something, but Tristan didn't understand. His eyes went to the form of his commander and king. Arthur opened his eyes, but did not move.

The Saxon was waiting for an answer. Tristan had to wait to attack until he got closer. His disguise confused the Saxon—but then he saw Tristan's dagger.

The guard sprang to his feet and drew a deep breath to shout a warning. Tristan dove at the man, running his dagger into his chest. He covered the man's mouth with his hand, and the Saxon groaned a final breath. The sleeping Saxon stirred behind Tristan.

Tristan finished off the first guard just as the other saw what he'd done.

"Attack!" he shouted, or something garbled enough like it. He drew his sword. Tristan threw his dagger without another wasted second. The guard slumped to the ground.

Tristan grabbed the dagger again and turned to Arthur. The confusion on his face was clear, until Tristan removed the furred helmet he'd taken.

"Tristan," he breathed with relief.

"Hold still." Tristan cut the ropes that tied Arthur. His eyes surveyed the king; he was beaten badly enough that Tristan knew he would be alone in fighting their way out.

Voices came from other parts of the cave.

"We don't have much time," Arthur said unnecessarily. Tristan helped Arthur to his feet, only to have Arthur stumble until caught. Tristan looked for injuries on his legs.

"Are you hurt?"

Arthur shook his head. "I'll be fine. Lead the way." Tristan didn't bother to admire the king's resolve; no time.

He handed Arthur the dagger, and drew his own sword.

Footsteps pounded towards them. Tristan ran ahead, keeping close to the wall of the cave to stay as hidden as he could. They had to make it out of this tunnel before the Saxons closed them in. It wasn't much further—

Just as he saw the cave open up, several Saxons closed the gap. He stopped and put out an arm to stop Arthur. The king was slow to catch up. When he did, he saw the group of Saxons coming towards them.

"Tristan, you shouldn't have come," he said. Tristan ignored him, knowing already where he was heading. "You should hide. Let me convince them I tried to escape." _Always ready to sacrifice himself._ Tristan bit back a smile.

"Follow as close as you can," he said. And then Tristan ran full-speed at the Saxons.

He slashed his sword back and forth as he yelled a battle cry at the Saxons. It worked enough to make them stop and think. Not wanting to be cut or killed, the Saxons started to back up even as Tristan advanced on them. Surprise was in his favor.

But the Saxons raised their swords and fell back to the open space of the cave. Tristan quickly engaged them. He blocked a blow from a Saxon's sword, but another swiped at him. He jumped back, bumping into Arthur.

"Tristan—"

But he attacked again. The benefit of the cave was that only so many Saxons could get a chance at him at once. As such, Tristan faced groups of three or four Saxons at a time. He cut down two easily, but they were replaced by more. Tristan turned abruptly, dodging a stab, and then thrust his sword into a Saxon's gut.

Two Saxons descended on him at that moment, knowing his sword was momentarily trapped. Tristan fell back to the ground, his grip on his sword firm to yank it from the man he killed. Just in time he blocked a downward blow, but on the ground he was disadvantaged enough. A blade nicked his shoulder. Tristan rolled to his stomach, kicking out behind him at the Saxons. He got to his feet and felt the stinging pain in his shoulder while he slashed at the Saxons.

The front of the cave was blocked—the alarm was raised. Tristan pivoted closer towards the tunnel he'd entered through. He held out one arm behind him, shepherding Arthur that direction. The king was sluggish in his movements, enough that Tristan looked back quickly at him.

A Saxon leapt at Tristan in that moment. The heavy weight of the man collided with Tristan and forced him brutally into the cave wall. His head hit the wall, already compounding the force with which the impact made him breathless. The Saxon moved to punch Tristan in the face. At the last second, Tristan moved his head, and the Saxon roared in pain. His brothers-in-arms grabbed Tristan and Arthur.

Four of them had him by each limb. Tristan still had a grip on his sword. He twisted his wrist back and forth, managing to knick the Saxons. He wretched his leg free and kick a man in the face. Furious, the Saxon by his left arm pulled out a knife, plunging it down upon him—

Until Arthur collided with the group. Tristan thought he was being held by some other Saxons, but somehow he was free enough to help. The Saxon's knife clattered to the ground, and thanks to Arthur, Tristan fell as well. He grabbed the knife and stabbed it through a Saxon's foot, then popped up on his feet to face his enemies.

Two more sought to attack him from both sides. A bit shaky, he stabbed one and kicked back the other.

"Arthur!" he yelled without daring to look.

"Yeah?" came back a breathless but alert reply.

"Head down the tunnel, now!" Tristan blocked another attack. There were just four Saxons left, but he saw one running out the main entrance of the cave. _He's calling for reinforcements_.

Tristan blocked a swipe at his body, twisted and shoved a Saxon away into the other three. He turned and ran after Arthur, hoping they could outrun their enemies—and the crossbows he saw in one of their hands.

Ahead of him, Arthur limped. He steadied himself with a hand against the cave wall. Tristan caught up quickly and put Arthur's arm over his shoulder. He winced, Arthur's weight straining the slice in that shoulder.

"Where does this lead?" Arthur asked. Tristan ignored the question. No sense worrying Arthur yet.

A crossbolt rammed into the rocks by Arthur's head. Tristan twisted to protect Arthur from any others. He pushed Arthur faster.

They ran through the darkness that Tristan memorized on his way in. Around a corner, and they stepped over a body. Tristan could hear the water.

Arthur could too. "Tristan?"

They saw the water ahead, a powerful sheet blocking them.

"Keep going!" Tristan yelled. The roar of the water just intensified with the Saxons raging behind them. Suddenly a bolt pierced Tristan's thigh. He tumbled forward, taking Arthur with him.

"Tristan!"

Gritting his teeth, Tristan pulled out the bolt. The Saxons were reloading and still coming after them.

"No time," he muttered. He stood with a little help from Arthur, and forced them both towards the falls.

"What are we doing?" Arthur yelled.

Tristan spared a glance at his commander. Arthur saw the look in his eyes.

"Trust me," Tristan said. He didn't slow down, not with the injury in his leg or shoulder, and not with Arthur's hesitant weight. He ran, arm around Arthur for support, and launched himself and the king over the cave's edge.

They crashed through the waterfall until the force of the water pushed them down.

Tristan's mouth flooded when they hit the river.


	2. Deliverance

For the Dream of Freedom

Chapter 2

The force of the waterfall—and his own fall—sent Tristan's body into the boulders at the bottom of the river. He groaned, and water flooded his mouth. The energy of the rescue still surged through him, and he knew he had to hurry. But his body was sluggish. The cold water lulled that energy from him.

He kicked off from the riverbed. Instead of going straight up to the surface though, the water pulled him sideways. He figured it was the current, taking him downstream. Then he saw the white haze of the falls thundering into the river; he was being sucked under the falls.

Tristan kicked away, trying to swim and pull himself from the falls. He spotted his sword at the bottom of the water, and reached for it. He used it to push off the bottom. His shoulder stung, and that cross bolt wound in his thigh made his swimming weaker, but he kept at it. His lungs felt like they were collapsing with the lack of air.

He twisted around, facing upwards, and kicked harder. Bit by bit, he was getting away from the falls. He made himself keep his eyes open underwater, looking for Arthur. He hoped the king wasn't going through the same difficulty.

Tristan clawed for the surface with one arm while he kept kicking. He couldn't stop himself from swallowing the water in his mouth. His body lurched, reacting by clawing for his throat instead of air. Oddly, he wouldn't drop his sword.

An arm plunged into the water, latching onto Tristan. He was pulled up, breaking the surface with a long, loud gasp. He coughed out the water, most of which had gone to his lungs. Arthur clung to a boulder and pulled Tristan towards him.

"Tristan!" The scout could only cough in reply. Arthur slapped him on the back. The impact jarred his shoulder.

Tristan grabbed onto the boulder. He looked over the drenched king, and through his watery vision, he looked well enough.

Despite the cold seeping into his skin, they had to keep going. Tristan looked up at the falls. It didn't seem like anyone had followed; it was too high for someone to jump, unless you were desperate. He coughed.

"The horses are south of here," he said. He was shaking, but he made himself move. The sooner he got moving, the warmer he'd be. Of course, it was dark now. Good for cover; bad for survival.

Tristan stumbled onto land. He sheathed his sword in the scabbard on his back. One step, and he stumbled again. His thigh wound was going to be a nuisance until they reached the horses. Arthur stared pointedly at the wound.

"No time," Tristan said. Arthur didn't protest, though that would only last as long as Tristan didn't show pain.

0-0-0-0

They walked. Running wasn't even any option. Arthur's weakened state was paired with Tristan's injuries, and to his chagrin, Tristan could only be glad they were moving at all. He knew Arthur was tired; Tristan hadn't slept in three days, and he wouldn't sleep until Arthur was back behind the Wall. That was a day away still.

"Tristan, wait," Arthur called out. He stopped, leaning back against a tree trunk. Tristan turned back. The way was clear around them, for now. He wanted to scout ahead, but not with risking Arthur alone. He stepped towards Arthur—and his thigh spasmed, making his leg buckle.

He ended up on one knee with a grunt.

"Let me see," Arthur said. Wincing, he knelt by Tristan.

"It's fine," Tristan said, but Arthur didn't listen.

"Do you have something to bind it?" he asked. In response, Tristan took off his leather armor and ripped some of his tunic. He tied the strip around his thigh, hoping it would appease Arthur enough to leave him alone.

He was about to put the armor back but stopped. A glance at Arthur, dressed in no armor, and he handed it to the king.

"Put this on," he said. Arthur shook his head. "Arthur—"

"And what about you?"

Tristan snorted, and helped put the chest armor over Arthur's head.

And then the men sat, catching their breath.

The darkness was complete now, just the moon to show them their way. Arthur clutched his ribs.

"Guinevere?" he asked quietly.

Tristan looked his way.

"Worried."

Arthur didn't seem appeased with that answer.

"The knights?" he tried again.

"Fighting the Saxons," came the reply. "They'll keep her safe."

Arthur smiled softly. "Thank you." Tristan nodded, and hoped the king wouldn't thank him any further—he wasn't one for sentimentality.

A branch broke off to their left. Tristan could tell it was far away, but he instantly went on alert. Arthur shot him a doubtful glance. The scout couldn't see anything from here. It could be nothing of concern that triggered the noise, or it could be Saxons. Not knowing left him no choice.

He silently lent a hand to Arthur, helping him to his feet.

The urgency in his pace must have put off any questions Arthur normally would have whispered. Tristan had no desire to spend time talking strategy, especially since he didn't want to bring up a harsh truth. The Saxons weren't interested in keeping Arthur alive if he escaped; with their goal to make Britain surrender, a dead king was 2nd best to a captured king.

Tristan had to get Arthur back quickly.

0-0-0-0

Galahad sighed tiredly. The fighting had begun; after strategic staging outside the walls, and trying to intimidate the Britons, the Saxons finally got on with it. It was a relief, in that no one could second guess the decision to not surrender. Some of the "nobles" who clung to the queen were talking behind backs and pressuring Guinevere to surrender, for Arthur's sake, or to avoid bloodshed.

And now after a day of fighting, the Saxons retreated enough to rest for the night.

But Galahad would not be resting. It was his watch tonight, a watch over Guinevere.

Thankfully, the queen understood the knights' reasons for one of them to guard her. Arthur had been taken from the Wall—from inside the Wall and areas that were thought well-guarded and secure. Galahad had to admit it looked like an insider had let the Saxons in to capture the king. Or maybe, the traitor—whoever he or she was—took Arthur out on their own.

Guinevere walked by, nodding to Galahad. Over the last few days, Galahad better appreciated the Queen. As a leader, she had remained composed, strong, fearless. And as a queen, there was still a sense of order in the young kingdom. Without that, all that Arthur had dreamed about would be lost in uproar.

Galahad nodded back to Guinevere. He gripped the sword in his hands, at the ready should it be necessary.

Nothing would happen to the Queen. Not on his watch.

0-0-0-0

"I guess we've settled the need for an heir," Arthur mused. Tristan's lips quirked at the comment.

It wasn't as if he and Guinevere had been postponing that responsibility, but it just hadn't happened yet. If he made it back, he would pursue that with renewed vigor. Arthur smiled. How he missed his wife.

He thanked God that Tristan got him away from the Saxons. Being at their mercy, and knowing that his kingdom was at stake, nearly drove him mad. But the second he recognized Tristan in that cave, he felt peace.

Oddly, he felt that way now, even though he knew a traitor was lurking at the Wall.

"I didn't see who took me," Arthur said.

Tristan frowned. "How did they do it?"

"I had a drink," he said. "It must have had a poison of some sort. I don't remember how I was taken after."

He could see his words sinking into Tristan. The lines on his face deepened.

"They managed to take you out through the fort with no one seeing," Tristan said. Yes, that bothered the scout.

"They must have hidden me on a cart or something that escaped the guards' notice."

Tristan muttered something, and Arthur only caught a bit about the guards missing their own lives when he got back. Arthur grinned.

"It was a well-executed plan, Tristan. No need to make the guards feel worse."

He grunted.

"Besides," Arthur continued, "no real harm done."

Tristan looked to the king sharply. "We're not safe yet."

Arthur smiled again. "It doesn't matter."

A few minutes passed, with Arthur stewing over something—something he knew Tristan should not solely be burdened with, but something he trusted Tristan to never fail in.

He sighed quietly to himself.

"I need to ask a promise of you, Tristan," he said, stopping their journey for a moment. Tristan glanced his way. "I have no right to ask it, especially when you've already—"

"Arthur." The scout raised an eyebrow. Arthur smiled; of course, as usual, the scout just wanted the meat of his words, not garnishes.

"Will you protect Guinevere, and the kingdom, should anything happen to me?" He smiled. "She might take offense that anyone needs to protect her—that's the warrior in her."

Tristan nearly grinned.

"But nevertheless, I need to know. Will you do it?"

He looked to Tristan, waiting as the scout thought over whatever was going on in his mind.

And then, he nodded.

"Always."

0-0-0-0

The horses were waiting as Tristan left them. He held out a hand to Arthur, holding him back. Caution made him check for traps, for someone waiting, for anything different than he planned.

But all seemed well.

They mounted the horses. Tristan's thigh ached even without walking on it. As he spurred his horse towards the Wall, he tried to ignore the throbbing that synchronized with his pulse.

It took a few hours of cautious riding, but Tristan could hear the Saxons outside Hadrian's Wall. He directed his horse away from the front gates. Two guards were posted on the side of the fort to watch for Tristan's return.

He hoped they were vigilant in standing their post.

The Wall loomed ahead, tall and strong as they got closer. Tristan looked around them; he could spot no Saxons, but he knew they were out here. The Saxon army would have scouts everywhere.

Tristan gave a soft whistle. He brought his horse to a halt, with Arthur doing the same after him. The seconds that passed seemed to be much longer—

-until he saw the two guards appear. As soon as they recognized him, they tossed a rope over the Wall.

"Hurry, Arthur," Tristan urged. The rope fell just in front of the king. Arthur grabbed on, not even dismounting from the horse, and held fast as the men above pulled him up. Tristan maneuvered his horse and paced back and forth, his eyes vigilantly looking for enemies.

"Tristan!" he heard Arthur hiss at him from the top of the Wall. The rope was tossed down again. With a last look around, Tristan grabbed the rope and began climbing. That action seared his shoulder with pain. He kept more of the weight on his right arm, hoping that would help.

The men pulled him up. Arthur himself was helping too.

"Arthur, get back!" Tristan commanded urgently. His blood ran cold. _He's not safe._

"Nonsense, I'm pulling you—"

And Tristan heard it. That _twang_ of a bowstring, releasing its arrow. Tristan looked to the trees. And there he was, an enemy scout, hiding. Waiting.

He heard a thud above him. Tristan looked up to see Arthur fall back.

"My lord!" the guards shouted. The rope was forgotten, and Tristan fell a good 15 feet before someone either caught the slack again or whatever it was tied to stood firm. His heart beat far too fast, unfamiliar in its speed and the weakness it forced on the scout.

His fingers went for a small knife at his hip. Tristan found the enemy in the trees once more, and threw the dagger at him. It hit home; moments later, he saw the body fall to the ground.

There was no time for smug satisfaction. Tristan gritted his teeth and climbed up the rope, ignoring the cuts, aches and pains.

He grunted with one last pull that put him over the top of the Wall.

The guards knelt at Arthur's sides. Tristan froze. The arrow had hit him dead center. And it was deep, submerged beyond the armor Tristan had made Arthur wear. He stumbled to kneel by the king, his commander. Thick, dark blood seeped from the wound, and somehow Arthur was already pale.

"Arthur . . ." He turned sharply to the guards. "Get Guinevere, now!" Someone said something about a healer being on the way, but Tristan looked at Arthur, and knew—both knew—the healer wouldn't be necessary.

Somehow, all other sound stopped. Tristan felt his throat tighten. Arthur just smiled.

"You got me home, Tristan," he whispered. A gasp escaped Tristan's lips. He felt tears water his eyes. Through them he saw Arthur's smile broaden. "In all these years, I've never seen you cry."

Tristan took Arthur's hand in his. "Arthur . . ." All other words left him. Nothing short, long, or memorable came to him. He just held his commander's hand in a brotherly grasp.

"Remember to protect them," he whispered. A pain seized him, making his eyes squeeze shut. Tristan leaned closer uselessly. How to help the pain . . .

"Make way for the Queen!" someone shouted, enough to penetrate the haze Tristan found himself in.

Arthur looked past Tristan, up at the sky. "Thank you, Tristan. At least I can see my wife . . . one last . . . time." His last word evaporated in the air.

Tristan felt Arthur's hand go limp in his. The king's eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing now.

_No. Not yet_. His eyes went to Arthur's chest; it did not rise or fall.

A tear fell down his cheek. Tristan bowed his head to his king, resting it on their joined hands.

Behind him, Guinevere screamed.


	3. Action

a/n: Thank you for the reviews! I'm hoping I do justice to this story, but please be patient with me if I take longer than usual to write. Thanks for reading!

0-0-0-0

Action

"_At least I can see my wife one last time."_

No. Not even that came to pass. Sitting around the round table now, he could only remind himself of one hard truth:

He had failed.

Gawain was with the Queen—his turn for escorting her around. Despite grief, her safety was not to lapse. And so Galahad was in the council room right now with him as they waited.

The younger knight kept staring at Tristan's hands. They were washed and bandaged, as was his shoulder and thigh. The hands, oddly, hurt more than the other two wounds. That was okay; he wanted pain right now.

The double doors of the room opened, and Guinevere walked in. Gawain followed.

Tristan and Galahad stood and bowed.

"Knights," she said. There was just a touch of a waver to her voice. Beyond that, only her eyes gave away her sorrow. She sat at her normal spot. Her eyes fell on Arthur's chair, lingering. She cleared her throat.

Just then, several others filed in—Woad councilors and advisors, so-called nobles, and the usual crowd that surrounded a king and queen. But Guinevere stood up.

"You'll excuse us," she said, making the men and women stop. "I'd like to take council with the knights alone."

Tension swept through the room. Tristan knew there was division within court about the knights. _"Fine warriors, but they're not rulers_." Not to mention distrust that lingered from Roman days . . .

"My lady, of all times, we think it best you have a more balanced council around you," one said. His name was Valden, and frankly, one of Tristan's least favorite people. "After all, was it not their counsel that led to Arthur's death?"

The knights might have auctioned amongst themselves who got to kill Valden, but Guinevere stepped in too soon.

"You do not know my husband," Guinevere said so evenly that it sounded almost unnatural—enough to make Valden take a step back. "Even with his death, the course of action we took was what he would have wanted."

Valden had a Roman way about him—scheming and manipulative, even though he was a Woad. Guinevere stared pointedly at him.

"I thank you for your concern. All of you. But the knights, of anyone in this kingdom, understood Arthur best. I seek to carry out my husband's legacy."

She sat down and motioned for the knights to do the same. Valden caved in to the dismissal and shuffled out with the rest. The doors shut, leaving the knights and the queen.

She sighed.

"Politics have no respect for the fallen." She shook her head.

"You handled them well, my lady," Galahad said.

"Guinevere," she corrected. "You called me by my name before." She smiled, waiting for Galahad to color before going on. "I want to give Arthur the burial he deserves. But I fear there is no time to honor him when we have Saxons at the Wall."

She waited for some acknowledgment, and only saw nods.

"Speak freely," she said, a tired smile gracing her lips for a brief moment. "You've never been shy in my presence."

Gawain and Galahad gave in and chuckled.

"You're right," Gawain said. "We have to end this battle, especially before the Saxons hear about Arthur."

He hesitated at the king's name, but it didn't bother Guinevere.

"They'll only be emboldened by an empty throne," she said.

"Not empty," Tristan said, just briefly locking eyes with the queen. She nodded.

"No, I suppose not."

Gawain spoke up again. "We need a better strategy. The Saxons seemed to have learned since Badon Hill."

"We have the numbers to go against them just fine—" Galahad started.

"—but not the morale." The queen's words were too true. Without something driving the people, encouraging them despite their king's death, this battle was already lost. And that could not happen. If Saxons gained control, two of the very purposes Arthur charged Tristan with would be dead—the queen, and freedom.

Tristan studied the queen. She was strong; she was just as committed to this now as ever. She would fight for freedom to keep the kingdom safe. That was good. The kingdom needed her. And the knights needed to keep her safe.

_He_ needed to keep them all safe.

"Is there anyone who speaks as Saxons do?" His random question drew looks from the three others in the room.

"Yes," Guinevere said. "Why?"

0-0-0-0

Grief accomplished nothing, he reminded himself. Guilt and what-ifs were perhaps motivating factors, but action was what mattered.

And Tristan was good at taking action.

Following his nose, he found the ditch where the dead from battle were stashed—dead Saxons, anyway. He pulled a few bodies off each other, looking for someone who was his size. There were a few options.

From their armor, he pulled off a helmet that was not too bloody. A vest that had a good stab wound, but it was off to the side and not terribly noticeable. Boots. Arm guards. He even found a mace with a nice spiked head.

He waited to dress in the pilfered armor until he was up on the Wall. No sense in getting killed by Britons mistaking him for the enemy. He climbed down the wall.

He made his way through the woods until he saw Saxons, which didn't take too long. He held his mace casually, at ease but a warrior still. The armor he wore helped—no one blinked an eye at him. _No one expects the enemy in their own camp._ Even he had made that mistake; it's how Arthur was taken.

Which reminded him, after dealing with the Saxons, he still needed to find who had betrayed them. But that would have to wait.

Most of the camp was asleep. What few soldiers who were awake and on guard were bleary-eyed. Even if they were alert—which maybe a few were—no one suspected him.

He made it to the leader's tent, an easy target given the size of it and the larger fire outside. It crossed Tristan's mind that they could be expecting this, and that this tent could be a decoy or a trap. But Tristan didn't think that was likely. The Saxons were at an advantage, or so they thought with Arthur's kidnapping. If it was a trap, Tristan would adapt. He always did.

Glancing around, he saw no one was looking his way, so he slipped through the slit tent doors.

It was dark, of course. Tristan waited to be able to see better but his ears told him where the Saxons' leader was. He was snoring. Tristan followed the garbled sound.

The leader lay on a pile of furs, covered warmly in them too. None of his men were so well covered, but who cared. He was overweight, but hefty in bulk enough to be a threat if he wanted to be. And yet, sound asleep, he was just a man.

A knife lay by the man's armor, set aside on a chair of sorts where the man probably dressed every day. _Not today._ Tristan picked up the knife. It was heavy, almost clumsy instead of artfully crafted. Perhaps Saxons preferred that in weaponry. It didn't matter; the knife would do just fine.

He stood over the leader, unafraid the man would wake and discover him. Tristan pressed the tip of the leader's own knife against his neck. He smiled sadly, not to the leader, but to himself.

This would be too quick. It would not serve his sense of justice or revenge enough. But here was the man who had ordered Arthur's kidnapping. A man who had attacked Tristan's home. A man who had caused Arthur's death.

Grief accomplished nothing. But that didn't mean even the scout did not feel it.

The piercing look returned to his eyes when he focused on the leader. He leaned forward—that's all it took—and let his weight drive the knife into the sleeping leader's throat.

Aside from the slight noise of the blade going in and out of flesh, there was no sound. Tristan heard no undue stirring from outside the tent either.

He tossed the knife on the furs covering the leader_. _Tristan peeked through the tent's opening before he stepped out and went to the nearest sleeping guard.

_Now to give the signal_.

He grabbed the guard by the shirt and yelled in his face the Saxon words he'd learned at the Wall from a villager who happened to know the language.

"_He's dead! Someone's murdered him!"_ The startled look in the guard's eyes almost made Tristan smile. He yanked the man to his feet and threw him towards the tent. _"He's dead!_"

And that's all it took. The guard ran inside the tent, and within seconds began shouting that indeed, their leader had been slain. The alarm spread like fire.

Tristan made his way to the edges of camp, keeping out of the thickening crowd of soldiers around the tent. And then he heard it—

A battle cry. Coming from the throats of hundreds, maybe a thousand Britons. Tristan picked up an unattended sword. He tossed it from hand to hand, testing the weight. The battle cry was getting closer. Saxon soldiers were running around, disorganized. Some were still just waking.

Tristan took off the helmet and let it fall to the ground. He grinned at the prey before him.

He would make them pay.


	4. Despair

a/n: Sorry this took so long. I've had other things come up, but I want to continue this. Bear with me, and send me feedback. Thanks!

0-0-0-0

The smoke burned his lungs, but it felt cleansing. Death was in the air.

Good.

He surveyed his work. There was a radius of bodies and body parts around him. He didn't see any who were moving. The Saxons were defeated—again.

"How many?"

Tristan turned. Galahad stood overlooking the bits and pieces of Saxons on the battlefield.

"I didn't count." Tristan frowned. "Gawain?"

"He got a nice arrow in his butt," he said, snickering. "The healer's yanking it out. How's your shoulder?"

Tristan turned to face the Wall. He started towards it, a limp slowing him down just a bit.

"Gawain's with a healer. You're here," he pointed out obviously. "Who's with the Queen, Galahad?"

Galahad stammered something about the battle needing all hands, and that's when Tristan took off running. He ignored the pain in his thigh, the ache in his shoulder and generally the tiredness of not sleeping this week. He just ran hard towards Guinevere's quarters, leaving Galahad to try and catch up.

The villagers and warriors he passed were cleaning up. They seemed happy, but this was no time for victory in Tristan's mind.

He darted through the hallways, zigzagging around Valden and chambermaids and others. There was no guard posted at the queen's door. Without thought, Tristan went inside, fearing the worst.

A lone figure holding a sword instantly went on alert at his entrance. Tristan reacted, grabbing a knife hidden under his tunic. As the figure wielded the sword in a defensive stance, Tristan took notice of the willowy dress.

"Guinevere," he said in a gasp. Relieved—and embarrassed—he tucked the knife away. The queen let out a breath.

"You startled me," she said. She lowered the sword, but her hand still gripped the hilt.

"Sorry." He allowed himself to lean against the wall, a quick moment to catch his breath. "None of us were here to protect you."

Guinevere raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I cannot protect myself?"

He shot her a look not entirely respectful of her title. She smiled.

"Rest, Tristan. You look pale," she said. A frown appeared. "And gaunt."

He snorted but stood up straight, ready to take his leave. That's when he recognized the sword in Guinevere's hand. It was Arthur's. The queen's eyes followed his to the sword. She smiled sadly and held it up to inspect. Tristan looked past the blade to Guinevere's face; her eyes were puffy. They seemed to glow, as he'd seen them before after tears fell.

"It was his father's sword," she said. "He took it from his father's grave to defend his mother." She glanced his way. "He told you this, I'm sure."

Tristan gave one nod.

"I had hoped this sword would continue to Arthur's son, and his son, and so on," she said. "But it wasn't to be."

Tristan felt his chest constrict. No, it wasn't to be. Even though he'd just slaughtered the Saxon leader and many of his men, the pain hadn't gone away. He felt worn down, tired, but the ache and guilt were still there.

"I have something to ask of you," the queen said. Tristan stood at attention.

"Anything."

Guinevere dropped the tip of the sword so she held it with two hands, tip to hilt. She held it out towards Tristan.

"Will you bear Arthur's sword to his grave?"

0-0-0-0

It was an honor, what the queen asked Tristan to do. But somehow it felt wrong. He had gotten Arthur to the Wall, only to fail at the last moment to truly protect him. And Guinevere's request, to bear the sword to the king's grave, felt like a haunting command to drive home his guilt.

The sun was out, shining brightly. No rain today, although the clouds of smoke did their best to create gloom. Villagers lined either side of the path to the cemetery. Gawain, Galahad, Jols, Valden, and a couple of others carried the box holding Arthur's body. Guinevere walked ahead of it, leading the way to the prepared grave.

Tristan watched from the head of the path. He was to stay here until the body was lowered into the grave. He hated ceremony, but this was how it was done today.

Guinevere looked his way. The box lay in the grave now, and Tristan drew a deep breath. He walked towards the grave. Each step made his heart twist more. His steps faltered as a realization came to him, one he had thought before but which had not sunk in.

Arthur was really gone. The man he had followed faithfully for close to 20 years was dead.

He blinked, and focused on the grave. The heaps of dirt around it were being pushed onto the box. He came to the graveside, and waited until the dirt covered the box completely.

The sword felt heavier than he remembered. In battle, it couldn't have seemed this heavy. It had to just be in his mind. Tristan's eyes wandered over the ornate hilt. Even before Arthur was king, the blade seemed majestic.

He took two steps to the head of the grave, vaguely aware of the presence of so many watching him. But in his mind's eye, he saw his commander, lying as if sleeping. He took the sword by the hilt in both hands, and gently pressed the tip into the ground until it stuck deep enough to stay standing. And then he could only step back and stare at the mound.

"My husband had a dream once," Guinevere said, quietly at first, but her voice gained more confidence as she went on. "A dream that he thought lay in a land far from here. But he came to realize that dream could best come about in Britain. He came to love this land as I do, and as you do. He came to love the people here—to the point he would die for you. And he did. For me. For you."

Tristan started to feel numb as the queen's words washed over him.

"To protect us, and preserve his dream for us—freedom."

0-0-0-0

Tristan leaned against the door of his room, shutting it with his weight. The numbness hadn't subsided; in fact, he wasn't sure he'd make it back from the burial.

He stumbled forward towards his bed, but fell to his knees instead. His head touched to the ground, Tristan didn't bother trying to get up. He let himself bow to the bare floor.

His thoughts were jumbled, and none of them made any sense, even the guilty and mournful ones.

He let go, and succumb to a dark, deep sleep.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere groaned. Tristan glanced over his shoulder at her, but said nothing as they kept walking to the Round table. He looked better now—rested. That paleness was gone, and it looked like he'd had one decent meal recently.

She watched him walk. He hid a limp well enough, but Guinevere knew pride was making him override any pain. _Stubborn knights._ She had asked Gawain if all three knights were well enough, and of course, he'd said they were fine. Their constant protection over her had to wear down on them, but no one admitted it.

Having them around was a comfort though; but she knew it would only make tongues wag. She sighed again.

Tristan's step faltered just outside the council room.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His eyes met hers from behind his fringe-like bangs. It caught her attention—Tristan did not often make small talk. But then again, he wasn't asking idly.

"The people are done honoring Arthur," she said. "Now comes the pressure to remarry."

Tristan tilted his head curiously. "The people don't expect that."

She smiled. "They will be led to expect that." And she went into the council room, where Valden and several other advisors waited.

Sure enough, Guinevere was right.

"There are several men who would be prudent matches," Valden said a short while into their meeting. "Of course, we must weigh the advantages and disadvantages of each."

Galahad coughed. "You disgrace Arthur's memory with this talk so soon?" Valden glared at him.

"I don't expect a soldier to understand," he sneered, "but the kingdom must be stable."

"The kingdom is stable," Gawain piped up. "The Saxons are gone, and the people support Guinevere."

"And after the queen?" Valden countered. "Who will they support then? Will they be divided? Will Arthur's dream die because we did not plan now?"

Though Gawain and Galahad fumed at Valden, Guinevere did not. She glanced at Tristan and smiled briefly just at him. And then she looked to Valden directly.

"Tell me about the best candidates."

0-0-0-0

Galahad slammed his tankard on the wooden tavern table.

"That was ridiculous," he said with a slur. "Insinuating the queen had to go run off and get married."

He snorted. Gawain grabbed the tankard and slid it out of Galahad's reach.

"Keep your voice down," Gawain mumbled. "You're talking about the queen." The tavern did have ears. Galahad had enough sense left to listen.

"Well," he said, whispering so he might be more discreet, "what do you think about it all?"

Gawain rubbed his head. His hair was tickling his skin. "Our loyalty now lies with the queen."

Galahad squinted at him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Arthur is gone," he said. "He loved Guinevere. Rightly so. She's a good woman. A great queen. Arthur would want us to serve her as we served him."

"Oh really?" Galahad leaned closer to Gawain, keeping his voice quiet. "Fine. But what of Guinevere's new husband, whoever he may be? Are we to risk our necks for him too, even if he's a fool?"

Gawain chewed on his lip. He swiped at his hair again.

"We'll have to see. But until then, we'll continue to protect her."

"Including this constant guard around her?" Galahad asked. It came out almost as a nasal whine, probably from the drink's effects.

Gawain shook his head. "I've talked to Tristan, and agree—until we know how Arthur was betrayed, and who it was, we can't risk Guinevere being alone." Galahad mumbled something. He really could be quite lazy when he was in a bad mood. Gawain rolled his eyes and grasped Galahad by the ear.

"Ow!"

A few tavern patrons looked their way, more amused than any concern.

"Stop complaining," he hissed. "Tristan's the one who sacrifices the most time as it is." He released Galahad's ear, and the younger knight rubbed it. "Don't forget to do your part to find the traitor."

With that, Gawain left.

Galahad downed his ale before going back to work.

0-0-0-0

Tristan thought about the council meeting. He'd gritted his teeth at what was discussed; Guinevere had been right, and he didn't like the so-called advisors trying to marry her off against her will. Well, almost—the queen would sacrifice her heart for the kingdom. He hoped also that she would choose wisely. The wrong king could bring a quicker demise than no king at all.

Clearing his head, he thought about each person around the table. He knew most, but not well enough to know if they would betray Arthur. Valden was his favorite—but unlikely—suspect. For all his faults, Valden did not want Saxons running over the kingdom. Going around the table, each person was ambitious or trying to curry favor with the queen, but not a person who would purposely let Saxons come and destroy all they hold dear.

The queen sat by the fire. She stared into the flames.

"What did you think of the names Valden presented?" She meant the potential matches for her. Her voice was a bit flat. Tristan understood this wasn't pleasant for her either.

Tristan thought about it a minute.

"Don't like any of them."

Guinevere smiled. "Well, thank you. That helps immensely."

Tristan shrugged.

Just then, Clara came in, one of Guinevere's attendants. Tristan nodded to her, generally to set her at ease with his presence. Guinevere had another attendant—two others, actually—but since Arthur's death, the others were afraid to be around the royal chambers, and realistically, the knights guarding her.

Clara bustled about, making swift movements and picking up the queen's things. She curtsied to the queen.

"May I get anything for you, your highness?" she asked.

"Will you make sure Tristan has enough blankets for the night?"

Tristan perked up. It was a small thing, but unexpectedly thoughtful of the queen, given that she had more important matters on her mind. Clara set the blankets by the fire. The queen's bed was in an adjoining room, but whichever knight was on duty sat by the fire, awake and alert.

In theory. Tristan knew Galahad had fallen asleep a few times. Guinevere had commented lightly on his snoring.

Once Clara left, Guinevere motioned to another chair by the fire.

"Relax, Tristan," she said. "If anyone barges into the room, I'm sure you can still draw your sword in time from here."

Tristan sat.

"I don't want to marry again," she said. "I loved Arthur. And now, as queen, I have to question if any other man has the best interests of the kingdom at heart, or something sinister."

He understood perfectly; he had the same reservations.

"What do you think Arthur would say?" She said it almost as if she were thinking aloud. But she looked to him when he didn't answer.

Tristan shifted in the chair.

"I only know what he said." Guinevere looked confused. "Near the end."

"What was that?"

"It was before he was wounded," he said. "But he asked me to promise, should anything happen to him, that you be kept safe."

Guinevere stared at him, until tears started to water her eyes. She shifted her gaze to the fire.

"That sounds like Arthur."

Tristan nearly smiled. Yes, it was typical Arthur. The smile vanished. He had been so close. So close to safety. Of course, there was no way to know what harm might have befallen the king later, even if Tristan brought him home without incident. But somehow . . .

"He wanted to see you, at the Wall." He couldn't meet the queen's gaze, which had shifted back to him. "He was comforted that at least he would see you one last time. Only he . . ."

"He passed before I could come." Her words were a haunted whisper.

Tristan shook his head. "I'm sorry." The apology was long overdue. He was not a man of many words, and what few he had came difficultly. "I – I failed—"

Guinevere rose so quickly to her feet that Tristan stood as well. But she put a hand to his mouth, silencing him.

"Don't," she commanded. Tristan stilled. "You owe no apology. Don't ever think that you do."

She was nearly glaring at him, so adamant in her words to him. Tristan nodded once, and she dropped her hand.

Neither spoke for several moments. They stood close, facing each other. Tristan could hear their breathing against the cackle of the fire. The queen seemed to be trying to slow hers down. A pain tugged at his chest, sorrow that Tristan couldn't help feel. Despite her words meant to alleviate his guilt, here stood Guinevere, mourning her husband and the bleak future ahead.

Guinevere swayed, leaning closer to him. Tristan tensed but did not move. She looked up at him.

And then took a step back.

"I should rest," she said, her voice weak. Tristan nodded, and she left the sitting area and the fire to him alone, retreating to her bedroom.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere muffled her sobs. She did not want Tristan to hear, and knowing him, he had ears like a hawk. She used the blanket to wipe her tears away.

She had almost asked Tristan something, but her pride prevented her. She wanted to hold him. For him to hold her. And the reason why made her feel so pathetic.

She wanted to be held so she could remember Arthur—to remember what his embrace felt like.

She wanted comfort.

A cold realization came to her, almost freezing her tears on her face. She was the queen. A widowed queen. She was alone.

Isolated by her title and station. Isolated by the possible motives of others. Isolated, because she had no one she could turn to now without complication.

She shut her eyes. _Arthur, what should I do_?


	5. Respect

a/n: You might have noticed I started writing another story (different from King Arthur)—and I've learned that it's hard juggling two stories at the same time. So, my apologies for the delay. Also, this version of Tristan is a little different from how I portrayed him in Fear of Rome and Persistent Knight, so it's taken a lot of rewriting as I try to strike the right balance. I hope this is coming out well, and I appreciate your patience and encouragement if it is or isn't. Thanks!

0-0-0-0

Tristan chopped the wood.

The pull of swinging the ax over his head tugged a little too hard at his shoulders and muscles, but maybe that was because he'd been doing this for a few hours now. A lot of wood was needed to rebuild damages from the Saxon attack.

The work felt good though, especially after just standing by on guard with Guinevere. Galahad was with her right now, although Tristan was to switch with Galahad soon. Tristan sighed and loaded the wood into a wagon. Another man took the ax from him and resumed chopping.

He led the horse towards the center of the fort. The animal nudged him as they walked.

"Eh," he said, but the horse just nudged him again. Tristan frowned but gave in by reaching in his tunic for an apple. The horse nodded as soon as he revealed it. Tristan held it under the horse's mouth. The soft muzzle tickled his hand and snatched the apple. The horse gave a content groan.

Tristan smiled.

Two women crossed his path. Tristan recognized one—Clara, one of Guinevere's attendants. The other was unknown to him, but the women turned and walked ahead of Tristan.

He listened in to their conversation.

"She's been ill often since the Saxons came," Clara said. "I've had to do all the work."

"Are you sure Hathwyn is ill?" the other woman asked. _ Hathwyn. _Tristan recognized the name—she was the other chambermaid to Guinevere. "I saw her going about the market yesterday."

Clara's reaction drew his attention more than her friend's words. The confusion on her face . . . clearly something was out of place.

"Perhaps she is feeling better," she said, but Tristan heard the uncertainty in her voice.

He continued to follow until the horse, out of habit, turned towards the usual destination for the wood. He handed off the horse and wagon to another man and then went on to his chamber.

0-0-0-0

"My lady, allow me to introduce Bladud," Valden said.

Guinevere tried not to groan. Diplomatic as ever, she smiled politely. Bladud was the first of Valden's wishlist for her to consider marrying.

Bladud bowed with no grace or smile. "Lady Guinevere," he said by way of greeting.

"Welcome to Hadrian's Wall," she said back. "I trust you find your accommodations comfortable."

He nodded. "Yes. But I hope you realize how weak this fort is."

Guinevere bit her tongue. She didn't change the direction of her glance at all, but behind Bladud, standing guard by the door, Tristan clenched his fists. At least she wasn't the only one in the room annoyed by Bladud's words. Valden didn't seem the least bit put out.

"I hope you realize that we did suffer an attack recently, the outcome of which also resulted in the death of my husband." Her words came out a little more sharply than she had intended—the smile she meant to flash to soften the words never graced her lips. But yet, Bladud didn't bat an eye.

"All the more reason when we're wed that we will move to my home," he said. Valden opened his mouth to correct the assumption, but Bladud kept going. "It is defensible and strong."

Guinevere could only stare.

0-0-0-0

Tristan tried not to react as he escorted Guinevere back to her chambers. Valden nearly ran to keep up with the queen's pace.

"He's not the most charming, I admit," Valden said of Bladud. "But he is respected."

"Not by me," Guinevere said, "and frankly, that's whose opinion matters most on this issue."

"Of course. Perhaps when we meet Madoc in a few days, we will have a better prospect."

Tristan cleared his throat. Another suitor coming, so soon?

Guinevere didn't stop her pace at all to say goodbye to Valden. She entered her chambers swiftly, leaving Tristan to shut the door behind her—and to leave Valden on the other side.

He checked the room while staying clear of Guinevere so she could have her privacy. Judging by her pacing, she was beyond frustrated. He gave a short bow to her and went to stand by the main doors.

"Tell me, Tristan, that there is someone out there who could fulfill what the kingdom wants and at least not be reprehensible to me," she said. He turned back to her.

"I would think so," he said. She rolled her eyes.

"Confident words of comfort," she muttered. He nearly smiled. Sarcasm was something he enjoyed greatly, especially from Guinevere. Maybe it was the paradox of her need for diplomacy and her frank character.

She poured herself a drink from a vase left by her attendants.

"Respect." She nodded to herself. "I don't expect handsome features or perfect charm, but I do require respect."

Tristan eyed the goblet she had in hand. The liquid sloshed with her movements.

"His respect for you, or yours for him?" he asked.

Guinevere went to take a sip of the goblet but stopped. "I was thinking of my respect for him, but I suppose it should be mutual." She thought on that a moment, and then put her lips to the goblet.

Tristan took three long strides across the room and stopped her from tipping the goblet back.

She eyed him bewilderedly. But his eyes were on the goblet. They roamed over to the vase.

"Hathwyn has been absent a lot, hasn't she?" he asked.

"I saw her today," Guinevere answered uncertainly. "Apparently she's been ill often."

"When did this illness start?"

Guinevere released the goblet to his hands. "After Arthur died."

Tristan took a sip of the drink. Nothing alarmed him about its taste, but he couldn't be too careful.

"You suspect poison?"

Tristan shrugged. "Probably not." Too many people had access to the royal chambers, especially if just for a moment to drug Arthur. Even so, Hathwyn was easily one of those people.

"Tristan, a little more explanation please," Guinevere said.

"Not until I'm sure," he said. Guinevere pursed her lips together, and from her hands on her hips, was quite displeased with him. But he didn't budge.

"You're quite infuriating."

Tristan tried not to seem mocking as he bowed.

0-0-0-0

Gawain spotted the chambermaid, Hathwyn, quickly. She kept trying to hide her face with a shawl. It was this, and her darting around whenever she left her home that made her obvious.

She went to work cleaning the royal chambers and other parts of the fort, as was her job. But she wasn't happy. When anyone approached her, a false smile came to her lips. As soon as she was alone, an expression of pure misery replaced it.

It was enough to make him wonder if there was more to Hathwyn than being a traitor. Of course, only Tristan believed she was the traitor responsible for Arthur's capture. But Gawain was starting to think there was something to it too.

He went inside her home not long after she left. It was a modest room, one of several available for the townspeople at a reasonable price. Hathwyn didn't possess much, but there were clothes and blankets sufficient for herself.

Gawain corrected himself: judging by the beds, there were enough blankets for two people. Two separate beds. And men's clothing, though it was all neatly folded and stowed away. A few bottles lay out on a shabby table, along with a loaf of bread.

He heard a gasp behind him. Gawain turned and saw Hathwyn at the doorway with a basket in hand. She dropped the basket, but before she could run—and it looked like she would—Gawain leapt towards her and grabbed her by the wrist. He pulled her inside and used the momentum to fling her onto the floor.

"Please, please don't kill me! I had no choice!" Hathwyn's eyes quickly leaked tears. Her breathing became sobs.

Gawain blinked. _No choice?_ Was she confessing to something so easily?

"You best explain yourself," he said, trying to sound stern enough to keep her talking.

Hathwyn ventured a look to him, and Gawain almost felt bad that he had his sword on him. The chambermaid was frightened enough.

"They made me do it," she said. "I didn't want to, but I had no choice! You must believe me. Beg for mercy on my behalf with the queen—"

Gawain went to the table and poured a cup for Hathwyn from a bottle. He handed it to her.

"Calm down," he ordered. "I can't speak for the queen. But I can voice my own thoughts. Tell me everything."

Hathwyn set the cup on the table, her hands shaking.

"I never wished any harm to the king or queen," she said. "But they took my brother."

"Who?" Gawain was trying to absorb all the information while keeping his emotions in check. Part of him couldn't believe this blubbering woman could be a traitor, but as her story unfolded, it made sense.

A man with the Saxons came to her one day when she was travelling back to the Wall from a nearby village. The man had kidnapped her brother. Since she had access to the king, he told her she must drug the king and bring him outside the fort's walls. If she refused, her brother would die.

"How did you do it?" Gawain asked. He always thought of himself as a reasonable man; bloodthirsty in battle, but not unforgiving. _But this very woman's actions got Arthur killed_. He fleetingly thought that it was good he was here, and not Tristan.

"They gave me a concoction to put in his drink," she said. She swiped at her tears. "He was alone in his chambers. Once he was asleep, I dragged him to a handcart. He was so heavy."

Gawain started pacing. He could just picture Arthur being carted off to the enemy as she described it.

"I stole a wagon, and took him outside the Wall." She sighed. "The Saxons met me in the woods."

The rest, Gawain knew, at least of the king's fate.

"And your brother?" he asked. Hathwyn's tears started all over again. She shook her head.

"They never released him!" She buried her head into a blanket. Gawain felt a small measure of sympathy. How could a defenseless woman prevail in such an impossible situation?

"He is dead?"

She could only nod.

He sat down at the table, thirsty and exhausted from the details. He poured himself a cup.

"Here," he said, passing her the cup he'd given her earlier. "Drink this."

She shook her head.

"Why did you not come to the king when your brother was taken?" he asked.

Hathwyn bowed her head. "I am just a chambermaid."

Gawain rolled his eyes and downed his cup, exasperate.

"Arthur has always stood for equality," he said. "He would help anyone, no matter what their station."

She looked unbelieving at his words. "It doesn't matter."

Gawain sighed. "No, it doesn't. But I will talk to the queen. You should come with me . . ." Something was wrong. He felt light-headed. Hathwyn's figure stretched and spun before him. The room began to spin as well.

"Hathwyn . . ." he started. Then his eyes fell to her untouched cup.

_You stupid fool!_

He fell flat on his face.

When he woke up, Gawain first saw Tristan standing over him. What woke him was Tristan's boot nudging him constantly until he regained his senses.

"What happened?" came a voice, and Gawain saw it was Galahad standing by Tristan.

Gawain groaned.

0-0-0-0

Tristan relayed Gawain's brush with Hathwyn to the queen. He expected outrage, betrayal, and sorrow. But Guinevere was still.

"Was she telling the truth? About her brother?" she asked several moments later.

"Gawain thinks so."

She nodded, as if she expected that answer.

"She's disappeared?"

"I'll leave at dawn to find her," Tristan said.

"Don't."

Tristan raised an eyebrow at her.

"She's suffered enough."

Resignation. How he hated to see it in Guinevere. Somehow, it made his chest ache.

"So have you."

She turned away from him.

"Well, now we know who did it. We can be at ease about that."

Tristan disagreed, but he kept it to himself. Everything wasn't all right now, as much as Guinevere might wish it. Though she might think the danger was gone, whoever forced Hathwyn to betray Arthur was still unknown. And since they hadn't rid the earth of all Saxons, the man or men behind it all might still be a threat.

"Valden suggests I accept an invitation from Lord Pendragon to visit his estate," the queen said, changing the course of their discussion. "I'd like to get it over with quickly, right after Madoc comes."

Tristan frowned. "There are dangers with travel."

Guinevere glanced his way wearily. "Hathwyn is gone."

"But not those who forced her hand."

"I have roamed these lands all my life," she pointed out.

"That was before you were queen."

"Yes, in days when a dead Woad was just as valuable, as you of all people know." She was glaring at him, but the glare faltered when the words left her mouth.

Tristan bowed his head, a gesture he'd picked up over time as a signal of acceptance. The expression on Guinevere's face became more weary at his action.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should retire now." She gave a quick nod, as sort of good night farewell, and left Tristan by the fire.

He unsheathed his sword and set it by the fire. And then he waited.

Guinevere settled into her bed. He could hear her arrange the blankets upon herself. After a few minutes of silence, he heard her sobs. They were muffled—always muffled—but louder tonight than on nights previous.

Tristan shut his eyes. He was not hurt by Guinevere's words—they were truthful—but that she said them indicated how much the pressure weighed on her. If Arthur were here, he would do anything to comfort her, and he would absorb the pain as his own if he could. Tristan found himself wishing he could do something that would make a difference.

He vowed to himself that he would find Hathwyn eventually. He would find her and at least exact some justice to satisfy the pain she'd caused.

But that might make only him feel better. Guinevere already waived any desire for justice on the chambermaid.

Tristan picked up his sword. There were scratches and nicks in the blade, small ones that really only he saw. The hilt bore grime deep in the crevices that had not been cleaned despite his best efforts. It made his sword the part of his that it was. A fighter. A protector.

He would see to it that Guinevere was well-protected on their upcoming journey.


	6. Journey

a/n: So, I realized a huge oversight on my part in recent chapters. I forgot about Bors! I've written too much to go back and add him in, so really I just feel sheepish. What I've done is remove him from Chapter 1 (the only reference to him). Let's just assume he's not around the Wall anymore. Pardon my error! And thank you for your wonderful feedback!

0-0-0-0

Madoc arrived with a full entourage of his own soldiers. This instantly put Gawain and Galahad on edge. Tristan showed no outward concern. He did, however, trade shifts with Gawain to protect Guinevere.

Guinevere thought that could be his only sign of worry about Madoc. Or, it could be a reflection of Tristan's confidence in Gawain, after Gawain managed to get drugged and let Hathwyn escape.

By her standards, Madoc was not as intimidating as his entourage made him seem. Though the protection he brought would be a force to reckon with if they tried anything untoward, the man himself was polite and polished. He had dark hair, kept long as a Woad did. Madoc was a Woad, but had distanced himself from the skirmishes with Rome in those days.

"Tell me of your home," Guinevere said as they dined. It was just her, Madoc, Tristan, and a guard of Madoc's. Neither Tristan or the other guard ate. Perhaps Madoc kept the guard close because he did not believe in the safety of Hadrian's Wall. Guinevere wondered if all Britain thought it weak.

"It's nestled by the sea, on the eastern coast," Madoc answered evenly. "At this time of year, it grows very cold with the dampness. It is beautiful though."

Guinevere smiled. "I can imagine."

"You don't have to," he said. "Perhaps you would like to visit." Guinevere looked to his eyes, searching for motive. But she could not find one. He seemed sincere.

"Perhaps." Guinevere took a bite of her food, a cooked bird. Madoc was considerate enough to send his entourage elsewhere—the tavern—for meals. He did not expect royal treatment for them all, a gesture Guinevere appreciated given the strain that would be on both the people and resources at the fort.

"May I ask what happened, my lady?" he asked. Guinevere looked up from her plate sharply. "To the king?"

Guinevere hesitated. His tone was not pressuring. She found herself looking to Tristan, only to see him looking her way as well. When their eyes met, he looked away, feigning a statuesque pose of an indifferent guard.

She looked to Madoc. "I have not spoken of it but to my closest advisors. Would you forgive me if we did not speak of it?"

"Of course."

Madoc glanced at Tristan, and returned to his meal.

The next few days were pleasant enough. Meetings with Valden became more politically minded, during which time Guinevere discovered he did not favor Madoc. That almost made Madoc more desirable as a potential suitor.

He had favored her with gentle compliments, nothing too flowery or insincere. He was kind enough, more than she expected before she met him. After two days, he dismissed his own guard, which set the knights a little more at ease. But there was something about him that she couldn't overlook.

He might just really like her. And that alarmed her.

She was a very recent widow. A queen. And she loved Arthur. She knew love, and here was a man honestly seeking it from her.

He was a good enough man that she could not wish him a future without reciprocated love.

The day before he was to leave, Guinevere and Tristan made their way to the round table for another meal with Madoc. Just before entering, Tristan stopped and turned to her.

"If you'd like to be alone, I can stay out here," he said. Guinevere raised a brow at him.

"You trust him that much?" She was teasing, of course. Tristan shrugged.

"I can listen from out here." He pulled a dagger from his belt and handed it to her. "Just in case."

She smiled at the dagger.

"You approve of him?" she asked.

Tristan looked away. "I approve of whoever will make you happy." There was a quietness to his tone that caught her attention. While a quiet man in general, Tristan had never been the sensitive one—at least, not until she came to know him better since Arthur's death.

A shuffle of feet brought her attention to Madoc, approaching the room.

Tristan stepped aside and held the door for Guinevere.

"Queen Guinevere," Madoc greeted. He nodded to Tristan.

"Lord Madoc," she greeted back. "Ready to be rid of all this eating?" He smiled and held out his arm to her. Guinevere hesitated, and again found herself glancing to Tristan. But he kept his eyes to the floor.

She took Madoc's arm.

0-0-0-0

Madoc left, and the journey to Lord Pendragon was readied for the next day. From Pendragon's invitation, he expected them within a fortnight.

The travelers unfortunately included Valden, who required a large carriage "for the queen," he claimed, but Guinevere was fine with the smaller—and faster—carriage. Even so, she relented that one carriage would be easier than taking two, so she relented that Valden and she would travel in the same carriage, along with Clara, her attendant.

Tristan was in charge of the men. Thirty-five soldiers, himself, and Gawain. Galahad stayed behind to lead any defense of the Wall.

Gawain sat atop his horse, which pawed at the ground. The other horses were shifting about, eager to leave as well. Tristan walked down the line of soldiers. They looked stern, ready.

_Good._

Valden walked out, trailed by Clara. Tristan didn't watch them enter the carriage. His eyes stayed on the shadows of the courtyard. Guinevere emerged from those shadows.

Tristan moved to the side of the carriage and held out a hand to help her in.

"Thank you, Tristan."

He held her hand a moment longer than she was expecting, drawing her focus.

"If anything happens on the way, go to the floor of the carriage. Don't peek out of the window," he said. Guinevere smiled warily.

"No heroics?" she questioned.

"Not by you," he said, and then shut the door. Gawain chuckled. He held the reins of Tristan's horse out to him.

Tristan grabbed the reins and saddle and swung himself on top of the horse.

"Ready?" Gawain asked.

Tristan nodded. "One of us stays by the carriage at all times." Gawain agreed. To Galahad, who looked a little put-out that he was staying behind, Tristan said, "Try not to burn the place down."

Galahad would have glared if not for Gawain's cheeky laughter. He stepped back from the caravan. Tristan nudged his horse forward with a slight kick. He went to the front of the caravan. There were good soldiers and scouts along with them, but he would lead the way for awhile. Perhaps he was being too serious about the journey.

Behind him, he heard Galahad mutter: "Have fun with that one."

Their first day was boring to the rest, but Tristan remained vigilant. He scouted ahead of the party here and there. The way was clear.

Pendragon lived in the middle of Britain, south of Hadrian's Wall. Heading south in general was better than going north, where Saxons lingered. Plus it was slightly—very slightly—warmer.

Tristan sat around the fire when they stopped for the night. Gawain sat by Clara, both eating something she had cooked from the supplies they brought.

The chatter of the soldiers died down as Guinevere walked among them.

"You can still speak around me," she chided playfully. The soldiers chuckled. She sat between Tristan and Gawain. Clara offered the queen a plate of food.

"Your highness," she said. Guinevere took the food.

"Thank you, Clara." She glanced at Tristan. "Are you not eating?"

He had been waiting to make sure Guinevere was seen to first, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Clara offered him a plate. He took it as well and began eating.

"I don't know how you ride all day," Guinevere commented.

Gawain spoke through a mouth-full of food. "You were always one to walk everywhere." True. Woads didn't ride horses as much as Sarmatians. No one did.

"How was the carriage?" he asked. Guinevere took a moment to select her words.

"Tiring," she said. Clara giggled. Tristan imagined being trapped with Valden for company was tiring on anyone. "Valden is convinced I will marry Madoc."

"Do you want to?" Gawain asked. Tristan saw a few soldiers look their way.

"Keep your voice down," he muttered. Guinevere noticed the soldiers as well, but at her look, they quickly returned to their own conversations.

"I'm not certain," she said.

"He seemed agreeable," Gawain commented.

"He is. I feel though I should meet the others before deciding."

Gawain groaned. "Does that mean we're traveling the rest of the year?" The queen laughed. She looked care-free for a moment, Tristan noticed.

"More travel?" came a voice. Tristan covered a groan with a false cough; Valden joined their circle. Guinevere kept any displeasure, if she felt any, hidden.

"Gawain was bemoaning the need to travel to meet others aside from Pendragon," she filled in.

"How many more?" Gawain asked. Valden settled close to the fire.

"Let's see," he started. "Amfortas, Falerin, Alis, Cadwaladr . . . I think that is all."

"Can't we invite them all to the Wall, and let them fight each other until there is a clear winner?" Gawain said. Tristan threw a piece of meat at the knight. "What?"

"Your mouth is open," he muttered.

"Imagine this, Gawain," Guinevere said. "What if none of them suit? We might have to start all over."

Before Gawain could even react, Valden stepped in seriously.

"Surely one will meet your requirements, my lady. They are decent rulers in their own right, and powerful in –"

"See, that is just it though," Guinevere cut him off. Any merriment evaporated from the air. "They all meet _your_ requirements. Some you favor more than others, but if I chose any of them, _you_ would be pleased."

She left unspoken words lingering over the fire. Valden flushed.

"Your choice should be pleasing for you first and foremost, your highness."

"Thank you," she said quickly, in a tone that drew the soldiers' attention again. "I'm glad to know I have your support."

She stood. Tristan stood as well.

"No, stay," she ordered. "Enjoy your meal. I retire early tonight."

She went to her tent. Tristan watched her until she was safe inside. Gawain stood, his plate empty. He glanced at Tristan, who nodded. Gawain walked over to the queen's tent to guard for the night.

Valden sighed. "I could have handled that better."

Tristan grunted. "That's your problem." Valden started; maybe he did not expect Tristan to respond to him.

"Pardon?"

Tristan pulled out a dagger, twirling it in the firelight once before stabbing a piece of meat. "She is the queen. You don't 'handle' her. You honor her wishes."

With that, he took his meal elsewhere. The fire was growing dim anyway.

0-0-0-0

The next two days erased any novelty of travel. Guinevere hated being cooped up. She spent her life living off the land, and now she rode on by as if a spectator and a stranger.

Valden got the hint to stop talking when Guinevere turned to reading correspondence. It was a boring task, but she was able to catch up on letters from Rome, her suitors, and even old news just as something to do.

But by the fourth day, she'd had it. She peeked out the carriage window. Gawain rode next to it.

"Gawain, do we have an extra horse?" she asked.

"The pack horses," he answered. "Why?"

"Stop the caravan please," she said. Gawain held up a hand and let out a whistle. He quickly looked around, uneasy about stopping. Guinevere stepped out of the carriage. Gawain scrambled off his horse.

"Your highness, what are you doing?"

"Bring a horse. I'll ride."

"I thought you did not like to ride," he pointed out.

"It sounds lovely right now," she said a bit too forcefully. Gawain tried to block her way.

"It's not safe for you to ride out in the open," he said. Guinevere rolled her eyes.

"Don't," she said. She wasn't trying to be insolent, but her sanity was failing in the confinement of the carriage. A horse trotted towards them. Guinevere saw it was Tristan's, bearing its rider.

Tristan slid off the horse before it stopped.

"Your highness, could you return to the carriage, please?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I know how to scout," she said. "Why don't you get in the carriage and I'll ride ahead?" His lips twitched.

"Not a good idea." He took her aside. "Guinevere, don't put yourself in danger."

"I'm not. This is my land too. I want to see it."

"Liar."

She nearly let herself throw a tantrum until she saw his eyes. As maddening as Tristan could be, he wasn't trying to annoy her.

"You know why I need some relief," she said. He nodded. "I am not trying to make it harder to protect me. Please, think of something that satisfies my protection and my sanity."

He glanced at the caravan.

"Next trip, we're bringing two carriages," he said. With that, he grabbed the reins of his horse and drew it near. "We ride together."

Guinevere felt her heart skip a beat. It was the prospect of being free of Valden for awhile, she convinced herself. Guinevere went to get on the horse, though her dress was a bit in the way. Tristan placed his hands on her hips, and helped her up.

He handed her the reins and then pulled himself up behind her. His arms cradled her, and Guinevere realized he was making himself a human shield. She felt selfish to put him in that position. But she let it go.

They rode on.

0-0-0-0

Gawain had shot him a curious look when he let Guinevere ride in front of him. Tristan didn't explain. But he was regretting it.

She was too exposed out here. Even the cold was making her shiver occasionally. That, and she felt the need to talk to the soldiers around them. Her words charmed them, showed that she cared, but really it wasn't necessary.

"You don't have to do that," he muttered quietly for her ears only.

"What?"

He glanced at the soldiers.

"Perform for them. They'll protect you even if you don't know their names."

Guinevere turned to look at him over her shoulder. "It's because they protect me I want to know their names. How would Arthur have ever led you as well as he did without showing he cared?"

Tristan didn't answer.

At the mention of Arthur, Tristan felt a weight on his shoulders. Tristan wouldn't be here if Arthur were safe. He wouldn't be riding with Guinevere. He wouldn't be holding—

An arrow shot out, sifting through his hair and the queen's. Guinevere gasped. Several more arrows flew by, and in that single volley four soldiers went down.

Tristan turned his horse sharply, moving behind the carriage. He scanned the forest around them. The attack came from the caravan's left. Shadows swept between the trees.

"How many?" he shouted. The soldiers were spooked, but they lined up to block a second attack on Guinevere.

"Thirty!" he heard Gawan shout back. He hoped that was accurate. Thirty men were manageable. He just had to get Guinevere back in the carriage so he could attack.

He heard a horse behind him, in the thick of the trees to the right of the caravan. Tristan's heart sped up. He turned that direction, and saw more movement.

"Second attack, to the west!" he warned.

"Back to back!" came an order from Gawain. Half of the men turned to face the other way, just as a slew of arrows were fired.

Tristan yanked on the reins, turning the horse the other way so his body at least shielded Guinevere.

"He has the queen!" he heard someone shout among the attackers.

And then they charged. Men from both sides came at the caravan. Tristan drew his sword.

"Tristan!" Gawain shouted.

He looked to Gawain. His brother in arms nodded at him. Tristan pursed his lips together.

"Go!" Gawain yelled. Tristan cursed. He sheathed his sword to the scabbard on his back, and then kicked hard at his horse. The horse darted, and Tristan locked his arms against Guinevere's body as they shot through the forest.


	7. Hunted

a/n: I have mapped out (and remapped out) the story, and am excited—which is good, because when I'm not excited, everyone suffers. Thanks so much for awesome reviews and feedback! Enjoy!

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Chapter 7

The horse leapt over a fallen tree. Tristan didn't brace himself for it, and as a result his chin slammed into Guinevere's shoulder with the horse's landing. His teeth rammed through his tongue. Blood seeped in his mouth.

He glanced over his shoulder. A few riders and horses were behind them, and he saw more on foot trying to follow.

The only advantage they had was distance. He urged the horse faster. Having Guinevere in front of him made it tricky, but she leaned forward as much as she could so he could maneuver.

He leaned left with the horse as the animal cut past some boulders, then back to the right to avoid some brush. Guinevere peeked over the protection of his arm.

"Don't," he said loud enough that she moved out of the sight of their pursuers.

With a whine, the horse stumbled suddenly. Tristan leaned to the side, checking the horse. Nothing looked wrong, but the horse's pace slowed.

He glanced behind him. An arrow had struck the animal's rump. Tristan saw two riders gaining on them. The horse wouldn't last long, not with both him and Guinevere on it.

"Take the reins," he shouted, handing them to her. He pulled loose his bow from the pack on the horse, and drew an arrow from the quiver attached to the saddle. He turned and drew the bowstring back. His target bounced with the movement of both the dapple gray horse and the enemy's.

He let go of the string. The arrow slammed into his target. Tristan drew another arrow.

"Duck!" he heard from the queen.

He obeyed just as they passed under a low branch. It brushed by his head. _A little more notice next time_, he thought. He drew back his bow again.

His target was doing the same. Tristan released the arrow. So did the enemy.

He leaned to the right, grabbing Guinevere so she wasn't exposed. The shifting of his weight threw his horse off balance enough that it stumbled again, this time leaning with Tristan and hopping to stay on its feet. The enemy's arrow ended up in a tree.

Guinevere corrected the horse's direction, shifting her weight back to help him. Tristan didn't have a moment to admire her handling. He checked the enemy. The man was on the ground, but standing. Tristan's arrow hadn't killed him.

He couldn't see any other riders, but they were out there. After a few more minutes of riding hard, Tristan slowed the horse to a trot. The horse whinnied. Foam dripped from the animal's mouth.

"The caravan," Guinevere said. Tristan shook his head.

"We can't go back yet." He could feel the blood in his own mouth still. He turned away from Guinevere and spit it out.

"What happened?" she asked.

He pulled up on the reins and dismounted. "Bit my tongue." He examined his horse. He was okay, but tired. Blood dripped in a line from the arrow wound on the animal's backside. He stroked the horse's coat a few times before yanking the arrow out.

The horse protested and pawed at the ground.

"Sorry," he said. The arrow was intact. The wound would heal.

Guinevere got down from the horse. She rubbed her own shoulder.

"Come on," Tristan said. He ushered her between him and the horse, and they kept moving.

The woods were quiet. No sounds of running hooves or feet. An occasional bird chirped, but that was it. Guinevere didn't talk, which Tristan respected. She knew it was safer to be quiet.

Tristan turned and walked backwards a few steps, watching the way they'd come. He turned back around when he saw nothing following.

A breeze swept through the trees, snapping weak twigs and sending them down like a rain. The sky looked gray. The air grew colder. Tristan frowned. A storm was coming, probably snow. He hoped they could find safety before the snow fell. Snow would give away their position. And realistically, there was no safety nearby. From the twists and turns in their escape, he had no doubt they were farther away from Pendragon's village now than where they were attacked.

He hoped Gawain was all right.

The thought left him when he heard the twang of bow strings. He tensed and reached for Guinevere. She had heard it too.

Several _thuds_ announced the arrows' target: his horse. The gray beast squealed and fell to the side, towards Guinevere. Tristan grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the horse's way. The animal fell over. Seven arrows lay deep in his horse's side. Just as many men charged them from the bushes.

Tristan scrambled to his horse and grabbed his bow and quiver of arrows.

"Run!" he shouted, and followed Guinevere as she took off through the trees. Tristan glanced back; his horse would die. The men had killed it to try and trap her beneath the horse's weight when it fell. They were cleverer than he thought.

Tristan caught up with the queen. He held out a dagger to her, which she took in stride.

The sound of hooves beating against the ground reached his ears. He swore. If their pursuers were on horseback, Guinevere had no chance.

His eyes came across a cluster of trees, surrounded by bushes. It was an obvious hiding place. He grabbed Guinevere's hand and pulled her back.

"What?" she whispered. He looked her up and down. She wore a cloak. The dress she worth beneath it was long-sleeved and looked warm enough.

It would have to do. Without a word, he took her cloak and tossed it in the cluster of trees. He pulled out one edge of it so it was just barely visible.

And then he turned back and grabbed Guinevere by the hand, leading her away from the decoy.

0-0-0-0

The snow began at nightfall. Her skin was raised with bumps from the cold, but she would not bemoan the loss of her cloak. Tristan's decoy must have worked, because they had managed to avoid their hunters ever since.

She felt his eyes on her and looked his way.

"You're cold," he whispered.

"No," she answered. He raised an eyebrow.

"We'll stop there for awhile," he said, pointing to a thick group of young trees. They didn't provide much cover, but there were boulders nearby that made up for it.

"They'll suspect we're there," she pointed out.

"If they find us, yes."

The enemy was looking for them in the dark, and in the same cold. Guinevere hoped that would be a disadvantage for them too.

She weaved through the trees until she came to a sort of center of them, and sat on the ground. She shivered.

Tristan sat next to her. He kept an arrow notched in his bow, his hands ready to fire. His eyes scanned back and forth for movement. Guinevere tried to watch as well. But the cold distracted her. She crossed her arms over her body, and tucked her legs closer to her chest as well.

Tristan looked her way.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded. If she spoke, she feared her teeth would chatter.

After several minutes, Guinevere struggled to keep her breathing even.

"Tristan." She hesitated. "Can I sit against you?" He didn't answer for a moment. "The cold," she added.

He nodded. He set the bow and arrow down and pulled her towards him. Guinevere tried to relax and not show any awkwardness at their proximity, but she was still stiff from the cold. He sat her between his legs, leaning against him. She hugged herself. Tristan added his arms around her, foregoing the bow and arrow for now. She thought about protesting that, but his body felt too warm to give up even one arm around her.

He wrapped his legs over hers, effectively cocooning her. She shook, but it was getting easier to control. The warmth of his limbs seeped into hers.

She let her chest expand with his as he breathed. Slowly, she relaxed.

Snow fell through the trees, coating them. Every now and then Tristan brushed it away. Guinevere suspected he was cold; the snow had to be melting into his clothes. But maybe the armor he wore fended it off.

She closed her eyes, feeling more comfortable than she had felt since her husband passed away. . . .

How much time passed, she didn't know, but she heard the crunch of snow. Tristan's body tensed. Neither moved.

She saw them, three men. They walked spread out from each other. One was armed with a bow and arrows, and the other two had swords in hand.

There were no tracks to follow, since the snow fell after they stopped. But their hiding spot was an obvious choice. Guinevere tried to move for the dagger, but Tristan tightened his arms around her. The men looked their way.

And kept on walking.

Several minutes later, when she couldn't hear the men anymore, Guinevere felt Tristan's arms loosen.

"Stay close," he whispered. His breath tickled her ear.

They got to their feet. Tristan picked up the bow and arrow. And then they heard the distinct metallic sound of a sword being drawn. Guinevere whirled around. A man was watching them from the path. Behind him were three others.

"We found her!" the man bellowed. Tristan drew back the arrow and let it fly. In the tight cluster of trees, the arrow ricocheted off a trunk and fell harmlessly to the ground. Guinevere clutched the dagger Tristan gave her earlier. The trees were close enough together that they would protect her and Tristan from arrows. But if the men advanced, she had limited space to maneuver.

Tristan dropped the bow and arrow and grabbed her hand. He led her through the trees, away from the men. They weaved back and forth. The men shouted behind them, raising the alarm to anyone nearby. One clamored behind them through the trees. The other three were finding another way around.

Guinevere saw one coming from the side. His sword was drawn, and he lunged towards the trees. Guinevere shrank away out of reach. She pulled her hand from Tristan's and kicked at the blade, knocking it against a tree trunk and out of the man's hand. Tristan broke out to the open woods and with a quick slash cut open the man's chest.

The others closed in. Guinevere grabbed the man's fallen sword and cleared the trees as well. She stood back to back with Tristan, watching the men circle around them. It had been some time since she fought. That didn't matter; she smiled confidently. It wasn't so long ago that she wielded multiple weapons on Badon Hill. Her skills were not forgotten.

The men attacked.

Two of them set upon Tristan, leaving Guinevere to take the remaining man. She raised the sword to block his strike and spun around, swiping at his chest. The man jumped out of reach, then tried again. The jarring impact of blade on blade was familiar to Guinevere, reminding her of battles she'd been in all her life. She threw her weight into a lunge, and when she missed, she rolled out of range of a counterattack.

Once on her feet, she saw she had two attackers now. The second man who had been fighting Tristan switched to her. Both stood brandishing their weapons and gauging the queen. Tristan looked her way frantically.

They had separated her from Tristan.

She frowned. Though Tristan was the bigger threat, they clearly were after her. The remaining man fighting Tristan had only to keep him away. Guinevere glared at her attackers. _They think I will fall so easily._ She would change their thinking.

0-0-0-0

Tristan put all his energy into dispatching his opponent. He swung back and forth as he relentlessly attacked back. His sword nicked the man's arm, and as the enemy recoiled from that sting, Tristan spun around and drove his long sword through the stomach.

He kicked the man away, freeing his sword, and turned to face Guinevere's attackers. She was enduring; Tristan knew the queen was a good fighter, but she was outmatched.

One of them raised his sword for a kill strike, while the other lunged towards Guinevere. Tristan jumped in their midst, blocking the kill strike. He kicked the man back, and stabbed at the other man. He missed.

Guinevere took a few steps back, as did Tristan. He could hear her quick breathing.

"You hurt?" he asked, his eyes not leaving the last two men.

"No. You?"

He shook his head.

"Give up the queen," said one of the men, a taller man with a crooked nose. "Do it now and we'll kill you quickly."

Guinevere scoffed. "That's no incentive."

Tristan took in the men's armor. They weren't Saxons, or Romans, or Woads. They were just men—from Britain. It chilled him. Saxons were bad enough, but an attack from within was worse.

Tristan lowered his sword. "If I do it, what would happen to her?"

Guinevere stared at him. He hoped she understood why we was playing along.

The tall man shrugged. "Depends on her." Tristan had hoped for a more concrete answer, though this one told him something of the enemy's motives. It would have to be enough information for now. He raised his sword.

The tall man charged him.

Tristan never considered himself at a disadvantage, no matter what the fight, but his focus was divided now. He fought back against the tall man, but his eyes kept going to Guinevere. She darted away from being stabbed, and fought back strongly. But the danger remained.

She was knocked down. Tristan retreated and stood in front of her, blocking her from both men. They grinned at him, and attacked from both sides. He twisted to the left and swung at the tall man, just as he saw the other man stab at him. Tristan brought his sword around and tried to impale him, but the man ducked and ran full-speed into him. They fell to the ground. The impact sent his teeth down hard on his tongue again.

The tall man knocked the sword from Guinevere's hands. Tristan pushed the other man off him.

"Guinevere!"

He pulled a knife from his vest and threw it at the tall one. The knife sunk into his throat.

"Behind you!" Guinevere shouted. He turned just as the last man ran at him. With a pivot, the blade glanced by him, and Tristan followed through with an elbow to the man's back. It sent the man further forward, towards Guinevere. She had recovered a sword, and with one slash cut upwards from belly to neck. The man's momentum did not give him a chance to stop.

He fell without a sound.

Guinevere viewed the body without emotion. She glanced from it to the others.

"Thank you," she said.

"You too," he replied. His words came out just a touch funny. Blood dripped from his mouth. He wiped at it.

"Are you all right?" he heard the queen ask. She came to him, moving his hand away and tilting his chin for her to see.

"Bit through my tongue again." He turned away and spit out the blood.

She raised an eyebrow. "Does that happen so often?"

"Today it did."

He wiped off his sword and knife on one of the men's clothes. Guinevere went back to the trees, and returned with the bow and arrows. Tristan sheathed his sword.

"We should go," he said.

"You're bleeding."

She tore a small strip of her dress and handed it to him. "For your mouth." He wiped it with the back of his hand; more blood. "Put it around your tongue to stop the bleeding." Though doubtful it would stop the blood, Tristan did as he was told. His tongue felt bruise and swollen. Not a great injury to have.

"Let's go," he said, and Guinevere laughed. It came out as gibberish because of the cloth. Tristan groaned.

"My apologies. I shouldn't laugh," she said, but the smile on her face lingered. "Lead the way."

0-0-0-0

The dawn light was a welcome sight for Guinevere. It was nice to be able to see more clearly. She and Tristan headed south again, towards Pendragon's village, but they kept off main trails. Help would be looking for them; so would danger.

"They mean to kill me, don't they?" Guinevere asked quietly. Tristan glanced her way. He nodded. "Why, when they were just trying to capture Arthur before?"

Tristan took the cloth from his mouth. She winced when she saw it; it was soaked with dark blood stains. He tossed it in a bush, out of sight.

"Whoever's behind this means to take over the kingdom," he said. His words came out a bit gingerly. She felt bad for asking anything at all, but he didn't act like it pained him to speak. "If they captured you, they would make use of it."

She stepped over a fallen log.

"Like using me to hold the kingdom hostage?" she asked. He glanced her way, but didn't answer. _Is that a 'yes'?_ "Tristan?"

He drew a breath. "I think to force you to marry, so there would be a legitimate king."

She did not care for that thought. It was logical the more she thought about it, but she was impressed that Tristan came to that conclusion so quickly. He was better at analyzing a situation than she thought.

"If that ever happened, I would sooner take my life."

Tristan stopped in his tracks. He studied her long enough that Guinevere wondered what was so baffling. Could he expect her to just go along with a scheme like the one he described? Or was it something else that bothered him?

He turned to face her fully. "It won't happen." There was a force behind his words, determination—and in his eyes, hidden behind that fringe of hair, a sincerity that spoke of his devotion. Guinevere's breath caught in her throat.

"No, it won't," she agreed softly.

They walked on.

Guinevere couldn't help watching Tristan. What was it that made him so faithful in his cause? Yes, Arthur had asked a heavy promise of him. But would he really see to it even if it constantly endangered his life? That was not fair to him. She knew he would fulfill his promise, but Guinevere yearned to release him from it. Tristan deserved his own life, one that wasn't filled with fighting other people's battles. Her eyes roamed over his form, remembering injuries she knew he'd sustained in recent years. Crossbolts, cuts, bruises, stabs . . . How many more would he suffer? And in her behalf?

He caught her gaze.

"Sorry," she said. "I was just thinking about those men. I suppose marrying a strong leader might be the best course to deter them."

Tristan stopped again.

"It doesn't have to be."

Guinevere tilted her head to the side, wondering what he meant.

"If you never married again," Tristan said, "you would still be protected."

"By you," she filled in. He nodded. "But what if I don't want that?"

Tristan looked away.

"What if I want something better for you?" she clarified. "You can't protect me forever from everything."

He paced. "Yes I can. Until you or I die, old and gray."

She smiled at the image of a graying Tristan.

"That wouldn't do for the kingdom, unfortunately," she said. "I'll still have to marry, and produce an heir."

"No, you don't."

She peered at him curiously. "Do you not want me to remarry?"

He stopped pacing to choose his words. "I want what you want."

Despite his circuitous arguments, Guinevere felt the sincerity in his words. And it touched her. She'd not known another man to care for her on such a personal level other than Arthur. _If only I could have that in one of the suitors._

She stilled as another thought came to her.

But horses approached, breaking her concentration. Tristan drew his sword and stepped in front of her. There was no time to hide; the horses and their riders appeared around a turn in the path.

She recognized the first man.

"Gawain!"


	8. Flattery

a/n: Sorry, lots of juggling and brainfreezes this past week. Enjoy!

Chapter 8

Lord Pendragon himself rode in the party. Gawain and the soldiers from the Wall were freshly supplied with Pendragon's men for added protection. As soon as they stumbled upon Tristan and Guinevere, Lord Pendragon whisked her away into a carriage. Tristan didn't like that, but Gawain convinced him to ride in front of the carriage as escort.

"How many were lost?" Tristan asked. He kept shifting in the saddle of the spare horse he rode.

"Nine," he answered. "What happened to your horse?"

"Killed."

Gawain frowned.

"How many followed you?" he asked.

"Two at first. We ran into one group during the night, and fought a second group later."

Gawain noticed how evenly the knight reported. That's why he'd told Tristan to go when they were attacked; in the midst of the chaos, Tristan acted. He was the last line of defense, and the best one at that.

"You did well, keeping her safe."

Tristan didn't react to the compliment. "They weren't Saxons.

"I noticed," he said.

"Whoever is behind this made a deal with the Saxons before," Tristan explained.

"In attacking the fort?"

Tristan gave a nod.

"And since that didn't work, they're trying to kill her?"

Tristan shifted again in the saddle. "Or to capture her."

Gawain's blood chilled at the thought of Guinevere being taken by any enemy. He wondered how much it bothered Tristan.

"We don't leave her alone," Tristan said. "Understand?"

Gawain nodded. He understood perfectly.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere thought the attack was enough of a surprise, until she arrived at Pendragon's home. There, Lord Pendragon introduced his son.

"Caldoc Pendragon," he'd called his son, who was probably not much older than 20. And the surprise lay in Pendragon's real purpose: to marry his son to the queen.

Valden turned beet red. She shot a look in his direction; so much for his political analysis. Pendragon sought to elevate his heir's status.

Caldoc was taller than his father, his stature young and firm, but his manner was inexperienced. Guinevere could not seriously consider this boy as a suitor.

At dinner, Caldoc seated himself near Tristan and Gawain. Guinevere was left to talk with Lord Pendragon, but throughout the night, she saw the fascination Caldoc held for the knights.

"He wants to be a warrior," Pendragon remarked, seeing it plainly as well. He shook his head with a disapproving sigh. Guinevere smiled.

"That is a noble wish," she said.

"Not for my son," he replied. "It would be noble of him to serve the people in the full capacity he can. As a lord. Or king."

Guinevere didn't remark on that point. No sense in dashing Pendragon's hopes to his face.

"Besides, any man can fight. What glory is in it?"

Guinevere frowned. Her eyes fell on Tristan. "Perhaps no glory at all. But honor." She looked back to Pendragon before he could follow her gaze.

0-0-0-0

Tristan slept poorly. Gawain was guarding the queen overnight, but he found himself awake as he thought about her safety. By morning, he had slept little more than a couple of hours. _Just as well_, he figured. He was to switch with Gawain soon.

Pendragons—father and son, that is—took them on a tour of the village. It was sizeable enough. Many villagers flocked to see Guinevere. Tristan kept close to her as a buffer. This seemed to annoy Lord Pendragon, but delighted the son.

"They say you protected the queen during the attack," Caldoc said. He kept trying to engage Tristan in talk. "How did you succeed with so many of the enemy?"

"Carefully," Tristan said. But his short reply did not dissuade Caldoc. Guinevere grinned, amused at this torment.

"They say you are the greatest of the knights left," came the next round of flattery from Caldoc.

"Gawain might give offense to that," he muttered.

"They say you went after the king yourself," Caldoc yammered. Tristan stopped abruptly. The sudden halt drew Guinevere's attention too.

He stepped close to Caldoc and hissed in his ear. "The king's widow stands not three steps away. Show some respect."

He turned and stepped ahead to usher Guinevere through a group of well-wishers.

Lord Pendragon glared his way. Tristan ignored it. But he overheard him say louder than necessary that perhaps they should spend some time getting acquainted without the presence of bodyguards.

"That, Lord Pendragon, is one of the knights of the Round Table," Guinevere said. "Where I go, he follows. That will not change."

"Perhaps once you marry, then,"' he persisted.

It must have amused Guinevere, because she teased Tristan about it that night.

"Nothing wrong with your tongue anymore, is there?"

Being in private quarters, he had no problem glaring back at her. She laughed. His tongue was actually still sore, but he knew what she meant.

"Which do you prefer? Bladud or Pendragon?" he asked back. She smiled.

"Depends on which Pendragon," she said. "Young Caldoc isn't so bad. Although I think he'd rather marry you than me."

Tristan grunted.

"You should be flattered, Tristan," she said. "He admires you." She handed him a blanket. Tristan shook it open and put it on a chair where he would remain for the night. Pendragon had already not approved of the knights' presence in the queen's chambers, but the recent attack served as a perfect reason.

"You couldn't seriously consider Caldoc," Tristan said. She smiled.

"No, I couldn't." She fiddled with her hair, taking it down from an elaborate arrangement Clara had done. Tristan watched as lock after lock tumbled down and framed her face. "The people would not support him. He would not dissuade any enemy from attacking."

Tristan nodded absently. Guinevere's fingers twirled at a curl. She shook her hair and ran her fingers through it. With a groan, she closed her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She reopened her eyes. "Headache. These elaborate arrangements tug and pull at my hair. I prefer to leave it more simply, but . . ." She shrugged. "Let's not talk of suitors. Surely there are more important things a queen should be doing."

Tristan nodded.

"The repairs of the fort were on schedule when we left," he started.

"Good. Galahad will keep it on track in our absence."

"He is also training new soldiers while we're away," he said. "To strengthen security."

She gingerly rubbed her head. Tristan knew of something to help the ache, a massage he'd learned for overdrinking. But that would mean touching her, and here, in her chambers, that was not as easy to overlook as out in the forest.

"And our journey home?" she asked. "Are you worried?"

Tristan didn't know if 'worry' was the right word, but he had his concerns. Losing nine men in the attack was not great. He considered sending for Galahad, but the Wall needed an authority figure to stay there.

"No," he said.

"Liar."

He looked to her sharply.

"I can tell," she said. "You held your breath."

He blinked. "I did not."

She grinned. "Well, Lord Pendragon has offered an escort of 20 men."

Twenty men. It would help. He didn't relish the idea of going home light on manpower.

"Good," he said, signaling his acceptance.

"You'll tell him then that we accept," Guinevere said. Tristan nearly bit his tongue again.

"What?'

Guinevere grinned. "You'll have to talk to him about the men anyway. Besides, I think Lord Pendragon thinks you're rude."

The look he gave her clearly communicated that he did not care what Pendragon—father or son—thought of him.

"Try, Tristan," she said. "Please."

0-0-0-0

Caldoc spun and roared, bringing his sword around like a lance. His sparring opponent swung his sword down at Caldoc's sword and knocked it from his grasp.

Tristan tried not to groan. The young man was showing off in a sparring match, with his intention being to impress Guinevere. Perhaps the young Pendragon did not know that Guinevere was a warrior herself.

"For all his fancy dreams of leading men in battle, at least he has real skill," Lord Pendragon said. He came between Guinevere and Tristan, who stood watching from the edges of the practice arena. Caldoc had picked up his sword and now charged at the man he sparred. The man side-stepped the charge. Caldoc whirled around and raised his blade to engage the man. Their swords clashed back and forth—slowly. The sparring partner seemed to be slowing down the movements to make his efforts even with Caldoc's.

It was painful to watch.

Lord Pendragon glanced Tristan's way. "You need men for the trip home, yes?"

Tristan glanced at Guinevere. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to answer.

"Yes," he said. Silence hung in the air, except for Caldoc's grunts as he fought. He remembered Guinevere's words from the night before. He drew a deep breath. "If you're sure you can spare the men, I would welcome their protection of the queen."

It sounded too flowery to him, and from the corner of his eye, Guinevere stifled her reaction. But Lord Pendragon eyed him with some satisfaction. A smile curled his lips.

"Anything I can do to help in that endeavor," Pendragon said. "She is well-worth the effort." He bowed in Guinevere's direction, which she accepted with a curtsey. Tristan made a mental note to tease her about the curtsey later. It seemed so odd from a former Woad.

Caldoc lunged at his partner and missed. He spun around and tried again, but the fighter twisted his wrist and just barely hit the blade to redirect it. The slight effort made Caldoc drop his sword again.

Tristan wanted to shake his head. The boy would never see a battlefield, much less survive one. But he spied Lord Pendragon and heard him sigh.

Guinevere interceded. "Caldoc has intense passion," she said lightly.

"Yes," Pendragon replied. "Sometimes a good trait." Guinevere caught Tristan's eye. She gave a slight nod to him. He frowned. She nodded again—urging him to act. He nearly groaned, understanding what she wanted from him.

"It will make him unstoppable one day," he said. He had to keep his eyes on the arena in case his look betrayed his true opinion of Caldoc's potential.

But Lord Pendragon began to smile. He looked on proudly at his son.

0-0-0-0

The journey back home was uneventful, though Guinevere felt the tension emanating from Tristan. She wished he would relax. She didn't acknowledge that she felt uneasy too.

Coming back home, they found Galahad had been busy. Hadrian's Wall was fortified better now, and she saw more men on guard atop the wall. She gave orders for Pendragon's men to be given food and rest. They would leave when they were ready in a day or two.

"My lady," Valden greeted too soon considering she'd seen him the whole journey home. "A messenger has just arrived."

"And his message?"

"Falerin comes this way," he said. "He is due at nightfall."

Guinevere blinked. "We were not expecting anyone so soon."

"It is presumptuous," Valden admitted, "but at least you may evaluate him without the inconvenience of travel."

He bowed and left her. Guinevere huffed. _Inconvenience._

How she hated this.

Falerin arrived late enough that Guinevere chose not to receive him. She could not avoid playing hostess the next morning though.

Guinevere stood as the doors to the council room opened. Gawain stood as well and moved away from the table to stand near the walls. The poor man had already sat through one meeting Guinevere had today, and there were two more this afternoon.

In strolled four guards, but from their midst came a man with dark hair and piercing eyes. His face was rugged, but fiercely handsome at the same time. Guinevere's breath caught in her throat.

"My lady," he said, bowing. "I am Gerard Falerin." He motioned for his guards to leave.

She bowed. "I am Guinevere." His good looks aside, Guinevere composed herself. She was a queen, after all.

"Rumor of your beauty was not exaggerated," he said. He walked towards her and took her hand, planting a kiss on the back of it. Guinevere smiled. His hands were warm, and the contact made her heart beat harder.

She cleared her throat and gestured to a chair. He sat.

"How was your journey here, Lord Falerin?" she asked evenly.

"Eager," he answered. "I have long wished to meet you, your highness." His smile faltered. "I am sorry it is under these circumstances. But I hope that some good may come of it."

He offered her a nearly humble smile. Guinevere found herself smiling back.

0-0-0-0

Tristan entered the council room. His eyes scanned the room until he spotted Gawain. Gawain signaled to him and the empty chair by his side.

Tristan sat and finished braiding a part of his hair. Gawain knew that was a clear sign that the knight had bathed.

"Did you sleep?" Gawain asked. Tristan shrugged.

"Enough," he said. "Falerin?"

Gawain hesitated. He lowered his voice. "Charming. I think the queen is smitten." He watched Tristan carefully for his reaction. He merely nodded, but didn't smile or join in the amusement that Gawain got from the tidbit.

"Do you trust him?"

"Haven't seen a reason not to," Gawain said. Just then, Valden and his entourage entered, joining them and the queen and others for a meeting about the state of the kingdom. While Tristan watched each enter, Gawain used the moment to examine his fellow knight.

He had seen small hints over the past few weeks. With all the time Tristan spent with the queen, there were moments that went beyond duty. Like him having Guinevere ride with him on their way to Pendragon's. Every action was justifiable. But in it all, was Tristan feeling more than he should?

Tristan must have sensed Gawain's scrutiny. He glanced sharply at him. Gawain moved his glance to the queen's direction.

"Guinevere is planning on spending more time with Falerin after this," he said. "He requested a ride, but Guinevere hasn't decided."

"I don't want her going anywhere exposed," Tristan said, nearly growling. "You saw what happened on the way to Pendragon's."

Gawain nodded. "I already reminded her of that."

Tristan relaxed, which Gawain found amusing. Did he think his concern would be contested by Gawain of all people?

"Where's Galahad?" he asked.

Tristan shrugged. Just then, the youngest knight entered and sat by Tristan.

"Did I miss anything?"

0-0-0-0

Guinevere found herself unusually quiet that night. While in weeks past she would have confided in Tristan, tonight she did not want to.

He did not instigate any conversation either. She let him sit by the fire as he often did, and she went to her room.

What bothered her was that she liked Falerin, but she knew it was more attraction than anything else. As a potential king, she did not know how he would suit yet. She was just ignoring that. Something about him made her ignore it.

He had urged her for some time away from guards, time to get to know each other without an audience. She knew Tristan wouldn't like that. And yet, she wanted to do it. It made her feel like a young girl, bent on secret romance.

Which was silly. She wasn't a young girl. She'd never engaged in such forbidden romances either, maybe because she was Merlin's daughter, and as such had more serious roles to play. Guinevere wished she was an ordinary woman, with the freedom to do as she pleased without every choice affecting the kingdom.

She sighed. That's not what her life was though. She had responsibility. She'd joined a greater purpose when she married Arthur. She had been happy.

And she wasn't happy now. Perhaps it was that without Arthur, she felt like a lone stone supporting the whole of Hadrian's Wall.

Turning her thoughts back to Falerin, she resolved to learn more about him, to consider him more seriously as a king, not just as a man. And as much as she wanted to talk it over with someone, she did not feel right to bring it up with Tristan.

0-0-0-0

"We'll stay on this side of the Wall," Falerin promised. "Come. Just for a little while."

Galahad opened his mouth to object, but the queen beat him to it.

"A ride sounds nice," she said, "but I really should gather a larger escort."

Falerin looked crestfallen. Galahad found it a bit pathetic.

"I only wish us to get to know each other," he said. He touched Guinevere lightly on the arm. "You are a queen, yes. But you are also a beautiful woman." He smiled. "A woman who needs a day of rest."

He held out a hand to her. Galahad watched Guinevere move to take Falerin's hand.

"It is a nice thought," she said. "But I cannot."

"Cannot or will not?" Falerin said. His tone was a little more sharp. Galahad and Guinevere both noticed it.

"Will not," Guinevere said firmly. She withdrew her hand. Falerin plastered a new smile to his face.

"I can call my guards to accompany us then. It will give your knights a rest."

Galahad looked to Guinevere and subtly shook his head.

"If your guards were to come, surely my own should too," Guinevere said.

"Or, we could go for a short ride, without any guards at all," Falerin said. He smiled, a little too forcefully for Galahad's comfort. Why was he so insistent they go on a ride?

"Excuse me, Lord Falerin," Guinevere said. "But I think the cold will keep me in today." Galahad almost smirked. It was actually on the warm side today. The sun was out and had melted any snow on the ground. But Guinevere walked away, and Galahad followed her.

0-0-0-0

She spotted Valden in the tavern, of all places. It was not even noon yet. He was raising a drink to his lips when Guinevere sat next to him.

Valden quickly put the drink down.

"Your highness," he said.

"I heard Amfortas has invited us to travel to his estate," she said.

"Yes, he awaits our acceptance," Valden said.

"Send a messenger today," she said. "Tell him we will be there in a week."

Valden's brow furrowed. "What of Falerin?"

"Regretfully tell him that we have a previous arrangement to see Amfortas," she said. "And make sure he leaves the fort."

She left the tavern quickly. Galahad followed her. She would not speak out loud of her discomfort with Falerin, but there was an undeniable feeling that he was less reputable than she assumed on their first meeting. The way he kept trying to manipulate her and convince her to go with him made her angry. The more she thought about it, the angrier she felt. If he disregarded what she said so easily now, when meeting her as a queen, how would he treat her later on?

_On to the next suitor_, she thought. She hoped Amfortas would at least be amiable.

0-0-0-0

"If you wanted Tristan more uptight than he normally is, you succeeded," Gawain said with a yawn. He stretched in the tight confines of the carriage. Valden was in a separate carriage this time. Guinevere smiled at Gawain's words, and from Clara came a slight laugh.

"Why? Because we travelled again so soon?" she asked.

Gawain shook his head. "Because we are vulnerable out here again."

Guinevere paused only a moment. "I cannot help that Tristan doesn't like vulnerability."

"No," Gawain said, holding back a snort. "Which is why he's out there leading the way himself."

"And why you're stuck in the carriage with me," Guinevere added. "At least you can be more comfortable here."

He almost argued with that. The carriage was too small for three people, or at least when one of them was him, armor and all. Just because he was in the carriage didn't mean he wasn't on guard and armed. Tristan had insisted on it.

"Does it bother you that Tristan always does the dangerous tasks himself?" Guinevere asked. The knight wondered if the queen had been reading his mind, or was thinking of something else.

Gawain shrugged, playing indifference. "He doesn't trust anyone else to do as good a job as he does."

"But he can't be everywhere at once. Surely he knows that."

"Yes, but that doesn't change anything." Gawain knew Tristan to be ready for a battle at any time, even more so when it came to something he believed in. Of course, he didn't believe in anything until Arthur became king. None of the knights had either.

"I wonder if he could give it up," Guinevere said aloud. Gawain questioned her with a glance. "Scouting. Protecting. Being a knight."

Gawain chuckled. "It's all he knows."

"Yes, but if circumstances changed, could he let someone else do it?" Guinevere shook her head and shifted.

"What circumstances do you think of?" Gawain asked. Guinevere hesitated.

"Nothing in particular."

The trip passed without incident, and their arrival was welcomed by Amfortas. Gawain thought the man was a bit short, and old enough to be Guinevere's father. But he was kind and hospitable, which Gawain certainly appreciated after being in that blasted carriage.

He followed a member of Amfortas' household to the guest quarters. With any luck, Gawain could nap before dinner. The queen was already settled, with Tristan as her guard.

The house had tall ceilings, very Roman in style. Gawain found himself staring at how high they were. His footsteps echoed strangely up into the ceiling with all the extra space.

He glanced ahead as his escort turned down another hall. A woman scurried out of their path. She kept her head down, as if bowing.

Gawain stopped just after he passed her. There was something about the woman . . .

"Sir?" his escort said, gesturing ahead to keep going. Gawain took a step back and stared hard at the woman.

Lifting her chin up with one finger, the woman gasped as her eyes met Gawain's. He knew why she seemed familiar.

It was Hathwyn.


	9. Truth

a/n: Pardon my absence on this, but I hope it is worth the wait! Thanks for your continued encouragement!

Chapter 9

Hathwyn trembled. Having Gawain discover her would make her fearful enough, but Tristan suspected it was the queen's presence that made her so anxious.

_Good._

"Who organized the attack?" Tristan asked. His voice sounded lifeless; it had the desired effect on Hathwyn.

"I do not know," she replied meekly. "Please, I thought only of my brother."

"You told Gawain your brother was dead," Tristan said. "Why stay at the Wall? Was it to kidnap the queen next?"

Hathwyn's eyes grew wide. "No, never!"

"Never?" Tristan leaned close to her, making her draw back. "You kidnapped the king."

"I did not know for sure if my brother was dead. I held to hope." She sniffled. "I had to stay, in case he was released."

Tristan didn't buy it. He circled around the woman. "And then you poisoned Gawain and fled."

"I was afraid-"

Tristan grabbed the chair Hathwyn was placed in and shoved it forward, throwing her to the ground. From the corner of his eye, Guinevere and Gawain shifted, but they did not stop him. Tristan knelt in front of her, seizing her chin forcefully so she had to look him in the eye.

"You lie." He drew his knife-

"Tristan."

He stilled but did not remove the knife or his glare from the woman's face. Guinevere walked towards the door.

"We'll take her back to the Wall. The council can decide her fate," she said. And she left.

Tristan's grip around the knife became painfully tight. He wanted nothing more than to take some revenge for Arthur on this traitor before him. It was Gawain's footsteps that made him stand and abandon this interrogation.

"Keep her under guard," he muttered to Gawain.

Tristan ran to catch up with Guinevere. Her silhouetted figure slipped down the hall and out into the winter gardens of Amfortas' estate. The cool air did nothing for his anger. He cut off Guinevere.

"Why won't you punish her?" It was nearly a growl. The thought came that he should check himself, but his anger overrode him.

"Why must you see her punished?" Guinevere shot back. "She is not the creator of the danger we face." The queen moved to go around Tristan, but he stepped in her way again.

"She betrayed you. And Arthur!" He stepped closer to the queen. "Because of her, your husband lies dead in that sad cemetery by the Wall!"

She clenched her teeth and moved away. Tristan caught her hand, and shoved the knife in it.

"Take your revenge, or let me to do it," he kept on. Guinevere pulled her hand from his with a forcefulness that spoke of her own anger.

"Why?" she said. "What would killing her do but feed your own blood lust?" She threw the knife in some bushes. "Do you think I am so forgiving?"

He swallowed, forbidding himself from answering 'yes.'

"That was Arthur," she continued. "Not me. But Arthur stood for freedom, for equality, for justice-and satisfying my need for vengeance goes against all of that." She started to walk away, but whirled back to face him. "I don't have the luxury you do to act without regarding anyone but myself. Don't you understand that?"

She pointed to the estate.

"Or have you forgotten why we're even here?"

She walked away. And though for her safety he should have followed, he did not.

Tristan stood unmoving, digesting the queen's words, before retrieving his knife sometime later from the bushes.

0-0-0-0

Dinner was a tense affair. Amfortas was horrified that the traitor worked in his home. Perhaps he thought Guinevere would suspect him of being in collusion with Hathwyn. But Valden did not think so, nor did Gawain.

Tristan really did not think about it much. He sat several chairs away from Guinevere. She smiled and talked jovially with Amfortas. The man himself was kind, albeit a little old for Guinevere, but who wasn't? His estate was well-run; the town civil. Everything about the man exuded peace and harmony that was so opposite of Tristan's life.

Maybe he did lust for blood . . . . Guinevere's words kept ringing in his ears, and even now he could not look her way for long without feeling some shame.

The defiant side of him wanted revenge-justice, freedom, equality be damned! Hathwyn might have been in a tough spot, but you did not betray Arthur. Not a man who protected others to a fault. Not a man so selfless, so brave . . .

Tristan drank from a goblet. Gawain said something awhile ago to him, but he couldn't remember what now.

Guinevere wanted revenge too. That's what she had hinted at. All the more reason he wanted to take it on her behalf.

But that would not do. She was becoming too much like Arthur-sacrificing everything, her heart, her revenge, both on the altar of "what is best for the kingdom."

He could argue Hathwyn's capture and punishment might boost the morale of the kingdom. But she was not the mastermind of a Saxon attack, nor the attack on their caravan not too long ago.

Laughter from the queen broke Tristan's thoughts.

How did she do that? Be surrounded by grim reminders of her husband's death, of threats to herself and the kingdom, and still smile? It was an act, in part-it had to be. But that she performed it at all renewed the shame he felt.

Later that night, Tristan went to the queen's quarters. Gawain was on guard inside.

He knocked twice on the door.

Gawain opened it.

"You all right?" he asked, but from the twinkle in his eye, Gawain knew there was some tension between Tristan and Guinevere. "Your highness, Tristan is here to see you."

Tristan did not like being announced for some reason. He let it go.

Guinevere came out. She crossed her arms but said nothing.

Gawain cleared his throat. "Tristan, you mind staying here while I get something from the kitchen?"

Tristan nodded, grateful the knight left.

And then not so grateful. For a brief moment, Tristan felt like a coward. His nerve disappeared, then slammed back into place. He was a knight. He'd made a promise, to protect Guinevere.

Even from himself.

"You were right," he said. That was always a good way to start an apology. "I wanted revenge."

His sparse words dissipated too quickly. Silence hung between them like a thick fog.

"It was thoughtless for me to forget your feelings, and your duty."

He waited for her to say something back, but the silence remained. Tristan bowed, and stepped away.

"Amfortas spoke to me tonight," Guinevere said suddenly. He stopped. "This incident with Hathwyn made him see me more as the widow than perhaps other suitors." She smiled sadly as Tristan stepped towards her. "He confided in me that his health is failing. He does not think he has but a couple of years left."

She sat by the fire and stared at its flames.

"Amfortas would not see me a widow twice," she said. "It seems I am harder to marry off than I thought."

Tristan nearly went to her side; instead, he watched her carefully, before opening his mouth.

"If you weren't so picky. . . ."

She turned sharply to him, but thankfully saw the curl of his lips. She laughed.

Tristan felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

"Thank you," she said. Tristan blinked.

"And here I came to apologize," he said. She laughed again. It made Tristan's chest ache.

"You and Gawain and Galahad do so much for me," she said. "I don't know if you realize how much I appreciate it. We're in this together, I fear. Arthur has trapped you in a promise that I know too well you'll keep to a fault."

Tristan shrugged. "I would have done it even if he did not ask."

She smiled. "I know."

0-0-0-0

Another tour of another town. Amfortas escorted Guinevere in a brotherly manner. She found herself appreciating him all the more. It was rare to find a man honest enough to tell her about the true situation he was in with his health.

The town was lively and bright. Guinevere felt calm, nearly happy here. Maybe it was that there were no pretenses anymore.

Oh, to live without pretense . . .

"Something bothering you, my lady?" Amfortas asked.

She looked his way. "Just enjoying the peace here."

Amfortas glanced at Gawain. He was taking a plum that a vendor was graciously giving him. The vendor was a pleasant-looking woman, which might account for Gawain's stumbling in thanking her.

"Your knights are good men," he commented.

"The best," she agreed. She saw Amfortas look Tristan's way. The knight seemed more relaxed than usual, but he was on guard. His eyes shifted back and forth.

"Sir Tristan seems devoted."

Guinevere nodded.

"He served with Arthur as scout, am I right?" Amfortas asked.

"Yes, that's right."

Amfortas nodded. "He's quite knowledgeable about horses."

Guinevere tried to hide her surprise. _Horses?_ She knew that, but-

"He helped me calm down a gelding yesterday. I foolishly try my hand with horses, but I fear I'm no good really," he said with a grin. "Tristan's expertise however must come somewhat from his homeland."

"I think it must," she said.

"He said he has gone home, but found nothing left," Amfortas went on. It astounded her that Amfortas managed to have so many topics covered with the knight. "That must be difficult."

"Yes," she said. "But Tristan is a survivor. He adapts."

Her mind lingered on that subject as they continued. Tristan did adapt. When she told him to play a role with Pendragon, he did it-and well. Apparently, he carried that civility on with Amfortas, even without her prodding. He excelled in many areas, and given the chance, he would succeed in . . . .

Guinevere blinked.

Could she really be thinking this? She had for weeks in pieces, but now, maybe it wasn't as crazy as she thought.

And maybe, if it worked, her future wouldn't seem so bleak.

0-0-0-0

"Valden," she greeted. Gawain stood aside. She motioned to the door as Valden took a seat. "Gawain, would you give us a few minutes?"

The knight was surprised at that, but thankfully didn't question it. Guinevere's nerves were already testing her composure.

"I think the meetings with Amfortas have gone well," Valden began. "How do you feel about him?"

Guinevere took a deep breath. "I have made my choice."

Valden straightened up. "So soon? Well, I suppose I should congratulate Amfortas-"

"It's not Amfortas," she interrupted. "Nor any of the men you proposed."

Valden shifted. He clearly did not know where this was going, and a man of his machinations did not like that.

"I have long thought on one suitor, someone who can protect and lead." She waited for the words to sink sufficiently. Valden nodded for her to go on. "The threat to the kingdom is too great. We need someone strong to resist the danger, maybe to even give our enemies pause. I believe this man will stand up for Arthur's legacy. And I know he will honor my wishes too."

Valden's mouth was agape. As if suddenly realizing it, he gave some sound as if he meant to speak the whole time.

"Ah, of, of course, this comes as a surprise." He cleared his throat and shifted about. "I'm afraid I am not certain of the man you are, uh, speaking of."

Guinevere smiled.

"Tristan," she said. "I'm talking about Tristan."


	10. Reservations

a/n: Wow, it's like my brain froze. Writing this chapter for some reason was harder than giving birth! Thanks for your patience and encouragement. Enjoy!

0-0-0-0

Tristan made his way to Guinevere's chambers. He inspected his dagger as he walked. It needed to be oiled and polished, but that would wait until later.

He hadn't thought anything was amiss until he passed Valden in the corridors. The advisor sent him a suspicious sneer, which caused Tristan to slow his pace. He ignored the look, nodded to Valden and continued on his way. It wasn't completely unusual for Valden not to like him or the other knights. The man thought of them as mindless weapons. But Tristan still thought it odd.

He knocked on the door.

"_Who is it?"_

"Tristan," he answered, and then Gawain opened the door. Immediately, Tristan knew something was up. Gawain looked uneasy.

Tristan's hand went to the hilt of his sword. Gawain shook his head.

"What's wrong?" he asked Gawain.

"Not certain," the knight said. "The queen and Valden just met. He was upset about something."

"That's not new," Tristan said. Gawain nodded.

"Something is different this time."

Guinevere came out from her room. She wrung her hands, but quickly put them behind her back. Her body language screamed of anxiety.

"What's happened?" Tristan asked. Guinevere hesitated, her eyes going back and forth between him and Gawain.

Gawain noticed quickly enough. "I'll be outside." He left the room. Tristan stood still where he was, waiting. His mind raced, but he pushed all thoughts aside; Guinevere would clear things up.

She paced a bit until she found a chair. It seemed a forced action to make herself stop fidgeting.

"Is it Valden?" he prompted. She shook her head.

"No – well, yes, but –" She sighed. "I told him I made my decision on who to marry."

Tristan felt his stomach churn. He resisted the urge to put a calming hand to his torso. She had decided – good. But he dreaded the answer to his next question.

"Who?"

She smiled sadly. "Valden does not approve, but that won't dissuade me."

"It shouldn't," he said. He waited for the name.

"It's a bit tricky," she said. "It is . . . he is someone I respect. He is formidable in matters of security. He wants what I want for the kingdom."

He could only think of one man she would describe favorably. Tristan looked to the floor. "Madoc."

Guinevere smiled briefly. "No."

Tristan searched his brain for someone else who fit that description. It certainly wasn't Bladud. And Guinevere didn't trust Falerin.

"Tristan, I . . . I wish I had more time to see if this is something you approve of, but . . ." She cleared her throat. "Well, of course, it's only my decision. You have your choice too."

She looked expectantly at him. Tristan was lost. He'd never seen Guinevere so flustered, and he couldn't make sense of who she chose.

"Who are we talking about?" he asked bluntly. Guinevere's shoulders sagged.

"I guess I haven't been very clear," she said. "I'm talking about you."

Tristan blinked. _Me?_

"I know you, Tristan," she said. "You'll sacrifice the rest of your life to protect me, for Arthur's sake—even if I told you not to. You've never schemed or tried to manipulate me. I value your advice above any other's. You're a good man. There's no one I trust more."

Tristan eyed the other chair across from Guinevere. He had to sit down.

His thoughts were scattered. _Maybe she means someone else. _

_No, she was clear enough._

_Did Arthur intend this?_

_Is she asking just out of duty?_

_Does she feel anything for me beyond respect?_

_Does it matter?_

_Could the kingdom accept me?_

_I'm not meant for this._

"Tristan, you can say no," he heard her say. Tristan focused on Guinevere. Her head was held high; he knew this posture. If he said no, she would not flinch. She was ready for rejection.

"I . . . are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes." She watched him carefully, waiting. He felt himself nod, though his body felt numb.

"I'll do it," he said.

Guinevere raised a brow at him. "This isn't a mission or assignment."

"I know." His short answers must not have given much confidence. "We will be married."

"Yes," she said. Her eyes surveyed him, not as convinced as she wanted to be. "I'm talking about the rest of your life. Maybe you should think it over more. I really won't be offended if—"

"I accept, Guinevere."

"To be a king? A husband? A father?"

Tristan couldn't stop himself from looking away. At the mention of being a father, his mind went to certain acts, and he blanched. Guinevere was beautiful; he felt something for her he had not felt for anyone else. But she was Arthur's wife!

Wasn't this betrayal, marrying the widow of the man he respected so much? And to live with her as husband and wife?

"It's all right, Tristan," he heard her say. What was 'all right'? "I'm asking too much." She smiled, trying to hide the hint of sadness he recognized anyway. She stood and moved past him.

Tristan grabbed her by the wrist. "Wait."

He stood, keeping his eyes on hers. He let his hand slide from her wrist to her hand. Her hand trembled. His fingertips brushed against the back of her hand.

"Do you want me as all those things?" he asked quietly. She looked down to their hands, then back to his face. She swallowed.

"Yes."

He didn't believe it, maybe because it seemed in some ways exactly what he wanted. But he couldn't want that. He was doing this out of a sense of duty. _She_ was too. To want it, that would make it wrong, right? His head started to ache.

"We should tell Gawain then."

0-0-0-0

Gawain was grinning like a fool. Anyone would have thought he was the one engaged to the queen.

"I saw it coming," he whispered to Tristan.

"You might have told me," he whispered back, but he knew Gawain would never have spoken of something like that, especially where it involved Guinevere.

They escorted Guinevere out to dinner, their final night with Amfortas. The queen and Tristan agreed it would be better to announce their engagement when they returned to the Wall. So Tristan stayed near her as a guard only.

But he was seated next to Gawain, who was seated next to Guinevere. Gawain seemed to think it was the perfect opportunity to torture him.

He leaned towards Tristan.

"So. . . . nervous?"

Tristan glanced his way, then ignored him by nodding to something someone across the table said. He had no idea what, but the nod seemed to satisfy.

Gawain leaned his way again.

"Just imagine: you'll be feasting like this every night. You'll probably get fat."

Tristan defiantly picked up a chunk of meat and took a bite.

Gawain chuckled. "Galahad will enjoy that. He'll finally be able to best you."

_Doubtful_. Doubtful he'd ever get sloppy enough to let himself go that way—especially when he spent most of his life with barely enough to sustain him available—and doubtful that even heavier he would ever lose to Galahad.

"Can you see his face when he finds out?"

Tristan groaned. He did not look forward to that. He didn't look forward to anyone's reaction. Being the focus of public attention wasn't something he liked.

"He'll probably say something foolish," Gawain went on, talking behind his goblet. "Like wondering if he has a chance with any of the women back at the Wall you fancied. Or if you'll still see them, and have one of those arrangements—"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, flipped his dinner knife around and brought it under the table against Gawain's leg.

"I'm joking!" Gawain exclaimed as quietly as possible. Tristan relented, bringing his knife back to his plate where he pointedly stabbed another piece of meat. "Finally, you're showing something. I've yet to figure your thoughts on this."

Tristan chewed at the meat, which for some reason seemed tasteless. "I don't know what I think."

"I thought you would have been happy," he said, lowering his voice even further. "I've seen how you act with her. We're all devoted to her; but with you, it's beyond that."

Tristan's jaw froze, the meat suspended in his mouth. He couldn't stop the confusion from showing on his face. Had he revealed so much in his actions?

Thinking on it, of course he had. If he'd seen Gawain or Galahad or any man do some of the things he'd done, spent the amount of time and had the sort of conversations he did with the queen, well, there was no other conclusion to draw.

He did admire Guinevere.

His stomach twisted at the admission. If Guinevere were any other woman, maybe he wouldn't feel conflicted. But she wasn't just any woman.

0-0-0-0

"She is the _queen_!" Valden hissed. "Not some bar wench. Think of what you're doing!"

Tristan had been walking back from the baths when Valden blocked his way, grabbed his arm and yanked him to a corner. Coming from the baths, he had no sword on him, but it was just Valden. Whatever his problem, he wasn't a danger to Tristan.

"I never thought you were after the throne but all that loyalty to Arthur wasn't so noble, was it?"

Tristan shook Valden's hand from his arm. "Careful, Valden." He knew, from what Guinevere said, that Valden wasn't crazy about her choosing him, but he expected a little more reserve. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink.

"You're not a king," Valden said, his voice growing louder. Tristan glanced around. A chambermaid scurried down the hall.

"Lower your voice," he growled.

Valden barely complied. "You aren't a ruler. You're just a soldier. If you want to see Arthur's kingdom thrive, let someone who is qualified be king!"

Tristan pushed Valden to the corner till his back hit the wall.

"I gladly would, whoever Guinevere chose," he said. "But she chose me."

Valden's mouth curled in disgust. "And Arthur? Would he want his knight bedding his wife?"

The pang he felt in his heart was barely noticeable compared to the swift anger that coursed through him. Tristan would surely have drawn his sword if he had it. As much as he wanted to hit the man, something stayed his hand.

He took a step back, his glare hopefully invoking enough fear in Valden to shut the man up.

As he turned away though, he couldn't ignore the advisor's words.

0-0-0-0

Guinevere changed hastily. She pulled at her robe. She considered grabbing a blanket as well to cover herself, but that would be a bit unusual. The only reason she felt exposed was because of who was in the next room.

_It's just Tristan_. It's not like she hadn't been comfortable with him here before. But things were different now.

She sighed. She'd tried to be balanced about it, both looking out for the welfare of the kingdom and expressing her own wishes. But Tristan's response—his duty-bound response—made her feel uneasy. He was no Arthur. But she wanted some closeness, as a man and a woman have. She wanted love.

Did he know that?

She had to see him. Though it was tempting to just go to sleep and hide, that wouldn't help their situation. So she sat by the fire next to him. Immediately , he sat up a little straighter.

And then there was just silence.

She tried to meet his eyes, but he kept looking to the flames of the fire, then the floor, then a knife he began to polish. He was avoiding her.

Maybe she should tell him how she felt, and what she wished for between them. But the idea was squashed immediately. Tristan was so hung up on duty; he would do whatever she wanted as a way to honor Arthur. She didn't want him to make himself love her just because it was what she desired. Maybe this was just a farce.

_But anyone I chose would have been a greater illusion. At least with Tristan, I know how I feel, and I can trust him._

She glanced at him, and with surprise saw he was studying her. His gaze shifted away quickly. Guinevere's heart skipped. She clutched at the blanket she'd put around her shoulders, pulling it tighter. Tristan was always observant; why did she feel so vulnerable with him now?

_Because you _are_ vulnerable. _

She did not like the feeling.

"When do you want to marry?" he asked, although the word 'marry' got choked by a cough. Both relieved at the attempt at conversation and horrified at the awkwardness this question raised, Guinevere tried to think rationally about it.

"Well, we'll announce it back at the Wall when we return," she said, trying to give herself time with information he already knew. "For an heir, I suppose the sooner the better." She faltered after she said that, sneaking a look at Tristan's reaction. He shifted. "When do you want to marry?"

He shrugged.

From his lack of response, which was maddening, Guinevere felt more doubt.

"A week? A month?"

He did not answer.

"A year?" she pressed. She felt more impatient with each word. "Never?"

He looked up sharply at that.

"The people will need time," he said. "Some won't be happy."

"It's my—our—decision," she said pointedly.

"I know. But if it becomes too much for them, it would be good to have time to change your mind."

Guinevere was perplexed. "Do you want me to change my mind?"

He hesitated. "I want whatever you want."

She stood, exasperated. "Wonderful. I didn't think it would be so hard to find a husband from amongst friends. I figured whoever agreed would be eager, not reluctant."

"I'm not reluctant," he said, standing.

She crossed her arms. "You're certainly not eager."

His shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth to object—just as a knock came at the door.

She watched Tristan discard whatever he was feeling or about to say. He grabbed his sword from where it leaned by the fire.

"Who is it?" he called out.

"_Gawain."_

He opened the door. Gawain entered but froze when he saw Guinevere.

"Everything all right?" he asked. Guinevere nodded. "I'm interrupting something." He quirked a grin. Guinevere turned away.

"What do you want?" Tristan said.

"I thought I should come for the night watch," he said. "Now that you're, you know . . . I've come to protect your virtue."

Guinevere rolled her eyes.

"He's right," Tristan said. "You don't want rumors starting."

She was surprised Tristan agreed so readily, but maybe he wanted his space, away from her.

"Thank you, Gawain," she said.

Tristan sheathed his sword to his back. He turned to Guinevere and bowed.

"Good night," he said. And then he left. Guinevere felt a pang of emptiness. She wished they could have come to some resolution; more than ever doubt assailed her.

Gawain settled in.

"A little tense in here," he joked. He assumed the tension was romantic. _If only._

0-0-0-0

Tristan kept looking over his shoulder to the back of the caravan. Hathwyn was bound to the horse she rode and surrounded by four soldiers. She looked terrified at first, but the monotony of the journey seemed to ease her now.

His eyes went to the carriage where Guinevere was. He did not object when Gawain volunteered to watch over the queen, while Tristan scouted. Gawain probably figured Tristan wanted to scout and make sure things were safe anyway.

The truth though was more to do with Guinevere than safety.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind. The road ahead was fraught with danger. He needed to focus.

They returned to the Wall without incident.

0-0-0-0

"Do you know where Tristan is?" Guinevere asked Galahad. They strolled through the town. Guinevere waved to the people and engaged in pleasantries here and there. But really, she sought Tristan. She could have summoned him, but she didn't want that.

"The stables?" he speculated.

They tried there, but only saw the horses being attended by a stablehand.

They moved on.

"Has Gawain told you about me and Tristan?" she asked quietly. Galahad grinned, but tried to hide it.

"Will he get in trouble if I say yes?"

Guinevere laughed. "No."

"Too bad," he said. "Congratulations, your highness."

"Did you know I really don't like 'your highness?'" she said.

"I did not," he said, but he grinned again. _Liar. _"Think how much it will irritate Tristan."

Again she laughed. But sorrow came over her. She and Tristan hadn't spoken about the engagement since their last night at Amfortas' estate. There wasn't enough time alone. He had made himself scarce anyhow, always doing something to get everyone home safe. She sighed.

"There he is," Galahad said, pointing. She looked. Tristan's figure stood in the distance, on the fringe of the town, walking towards the cemetery.

He stopped at one grave. Even from where she stood, Guinevere knew whose grave it was.

_Arthur's._

In all this chaos since his death, Guinevere had forgotten that she wasn't the only one who lost. The knights lost a friend, a leader. She felt ill for a moment at how consumed she'd been with her own problems, failing to see the reality in the people closest to her.

"Do you visit him too?" she asked. From the corner of her eye, she saw Galahad shrug.

"A couple of times," he said. "It got lonely here while the rest of you were gone."

She smiled.

"Tristan's probably feeling guilty," he said with a smirk. Guinevere looked to him sharply.

"Guilty?"

The smirk disappeared. "Just guessing."

"For what?" she asked. Galahad tried to shrug it off.

"Oh, I don't know."

Guinevere didn't believe him. "Galahad, what did you mean?" The younger knight squirmed where he stood.

"Well, you're Arthur's wife. Tristan must think it's wrong or something."

"Wrong? To marry me? Is that what you think?"

Galahad quickly shook his head. "No, I don't. But you can imagine how it must seem to him. Like he's taking advantage, now that Arthur's . . ."

The words sunk in. Was that how Tristan felt? She never thought he was close to Galahad, but surely the younger knight understood him well enough. They had been serving together for years.

"Galahad, if I had chosen you or Gawain, would you think that?"

Galahad glanced to Tristan's lone figure.

"Maybe for a moment," he said. "But then we'd let it go. Arthur would want you to be taken care of. Who better than someone he trusts and loved like a brother?"

That's exactly what Guinevere thought. Arthur would want her to move on, to do what she could for the kingdom, and herself. And after scouring the country for a suitable man, she came to Galahad's realization. Then why was Tristan so bothered by it?

"But Tristan's different from me and Gawain," he added.

She stood, watching the scout. Yes, Tristan was different. He was a leader, not because he wanted to be, but because he was driven to succeed in whatever his task. He had a fierce sense of independence, and was never afraid to be alone or face unbeatable odds. There was a depth to him; he did not reveal every thought that came to mind.

Maybe if he did, she would understand what bothered him. But she liked Tristan the way he was. She admired the quiet intensity about him.

She turned away and moved along.

0-0-0-0

This part of the Wall seemed darker to him. It was, actually. The absence of light here made it the ideal spot for a stealthy escape and return. This was the very spot Arthur and Tristan had climbed over the stones to the top of the Wall.

It was the spot where Arthur died. There was still a blood stain.

Tristan looked out to the forest. He remembered where the archer had been, hidden in the trees. One mistake was all it took . . . .

Being here made him relive those final moments. If only he'd warned Arthur sooner. Had he looked up, instead of just around him, he would have seen the Saxon in the trees. Or had he made their trip back faster, maybe no one would have been spying there.

He heard the thud of the arrow hitting Arthur. The memory was almost as clear in his ears now. Tristan's fingernails dug into his palms. He turned to the blood stain.

"_You got me home, Tristan."_

Tristan leaned against the wall, and let himself sink to the floor. He sat, staring, seeing . . .

"_Remember to protect them."_

And after Arthur's words, his commander had let go. Tristan could still hear Guinevere's scream from that day.

"Tristan," he heard. He jolted at her voice. Guinevere stood there, watching him.

He ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. He glanced past the queen. There was no one else with her.

"Where's Gawain?" he asked. She gestured over the Wall, on the inside of the fort.

"He protested, but I assured him I would be safe up here with you."

Tristan relaxed. She was half-teasing him.

"You should rest," he said. Guinevere sat next to him.

"I sat in a carriage. You, on the other hand . . ."

He shrugged off her implication.

"The council is gathering tomorrow morning," she said. "I plan to tell them."

He gave a nod.

"If you are still willing," she started, "it would be good if you were there for the announcement. As much as it pains me, we will have to put up a front for them."

He eyed her from behind the fringes of his bangs. "What type of front?" She searched for the words.

"We have to appear united about this. Strong. Confident. And happy."

The implication was clear to him.

"And we're not all those things," he said softly. Guinevere sighed.

"Tristan, I know you have your reservations," she said.

"So do you," he answered back.

She clenched her jaw. He almost smiled.

"Mine are about . . . if asking you to do this is wrong. Not wrong," she added quickly. "But selfish of me."

No, he didn't think it was selfish. If anything, it was damned near sacrificial of her.

"You're doing what you think is right," he said.

"And am I right?" she asked. Tristan couldn't answer her. After a moment, she went on. "What are your reservations?"

He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to give her any reason to back out of this. And if he told her . . . It would just cause her pain.

She knelt by stained stones. Her fingertips lightly drifted over them, touching maybe just once, and she drew back. She didn't face him when she spoke.

"You told me that he made you promise to keep me safe," she said. "And you wonder if this—us—is taking it too far. I don't know what he intended when he made you promise that. But you're not betraying him."

He tilted his head up to the sky, drawing a deep breath. Her words struck him hard.

"If you want to do this because you feel obligated to, don't come to the council room tomorrow," she said. "If you think maybe one day you could . . . look back and not regret marrying me, then come."

She stood and walked back the way she'd come.


	11. Targeted

A/n: Enjoy, and thanks so much for the wonderful feedback and reviews!

0-0-0-0

Dawn seemed to take its time coming. Guinevere hardly slept.

She was dressed and ready before Clara came to check on her. Gawain just started to stir on the chair by the fire.

The walk to the council room cinched her heart tighter and tighter. She dreaded coming to those doors. What if Tristan wasn't there? She and Gawain were turning the corner now . . .

The doors awaited. There was no sign of Tristan.

_Maybe he is inside._ He was always early.

Gawain held the door open for her. Her pace quickened, and she looked around the room. Valden and the rest of the council stood as she entered. Yet Tristan was not there.

She swallowed. It took all of her inner willpower to push aside her disappointment.

"Good morning," she greeted.

"We trust you rested well?" Valden said. Guinevere nodded, and she tried to smile despite the nausea that was coming over—

The doors opened, and in strolled Tristan. Guinevere released a breath she'd held. The nausea dissipated. She smiled. He looked different. The shirt he wore was nicer, and he didn't cover it with his usual armor.

"Thank you," she said, though she'd lost where she was in mundane pleasantries with Valden. Tristan came by her side. Valden frowned, and the other council members seemed confused. Normally Tristan took a seat or stood by the doors. Guinevere cleared her throat.

"I know we have much to catch up on, particularly with the fate of Hathwyn," she said. "But I have good news."_ Please, let them see it _is_ good news._ "Tristan and I have agreed to marry."

A gasp started with Valden—though he was well-aware of the decision—and circulated with the other members. She kept a smile on her face, one which grew when a few of the advisors voiced congratulations.

"When will the marriage take place?" someone asked. Guinevere froze. She wasn't certain Tristan would even be here, much less when the marriage would be.

"A fortnight," Tristan replied out of the blue. Guinevere nodded, hiding the oversight well. Murmurs of excitement went through the room.

"So soon?" Valden asked. "Should you rush this?"

Guinevere tried not to seem hostile towards the man, knowing full-well he only wanted to try to change her mind. "There is not time for a longer engagement. We have much to do."

"The person responsible for Arthur's death is still out there," Tristan added, surprising her that he would participate so much. "We have to find them."

From that moment on, it was an interesting exercise to see how quickly news traveled.

0-0-0-0

He shut the door behind him. His eyes closed and Tristan let himself breathe deeply and relax, just for this moment. The solitude of his room bordered on sanctuary. For the past week, he had been pestered by attention generated by the upcoming wedding, with well-wishes, visitors, rumor-mongers, and so forth. He didn't know how Guinevere had dealt with it in the past, and even now she did not seem to let anything bother her.

But it bothered him. All of it. If one more person sought him out-

Two knocks on the door drew his scowl. Just when he thought he could have some peace . . .

Opening the door, he found Clara standing there, a tray in hand with a jug and goblet.

"The queen sent this," she said, smiling. Tristan nodded and took it.

He shut the door before smelling the contents of the jug. A wine of some sort. He smiled. Guinevere must have noticed his impatience. He poured the wine and filled the goblet, before setting the jug on a small table in his room. He drank.

His time with Guinevere since the announcement was sparse. Actually, he saw her enough, but not alone. Right now he went with the tide of events, knowing he was to be married next week, and doing all the things he was supposed to, but never feeling. Never stopping. It was a whirlwind, and he hated it. He wanted to . . . he wasn't certain what he wanted. But he didn't want to find himself married and then suddenly having to be someone different. Worse, he dreaded the night of the wedding. His relationship with Guinevere was definitely not there yet-and he wanted to get to that point, but not from one day to the next.

He cursed himself for announcing their wedding to be held in two weeks. Sure, he had security-minded reasons involved when he said that. He _always _had security in mind. _Should have thought that through better_.

His goblet dropped from his hand. Frowning, he tried to flex the hand but it was numb. His legs trembled, then spasmed; he fell to the floor, crashing into the table with the jug. Suddenly coldness spread through him. The numbness took over, and Tristan last saw the jug, broken in a pool of the wine.

Fear gripped his heart before he could no longer hold onto consciousness.

0-0-0-0

"They're saying that Tristan desired you before, when Arthur was still alive," Valden said directly. Guinevere glared at him.

"You know that is preposterous," she said, "and 'they' are really only a few men and women who seek to upset the people."

Valden sat, his eyes following Guinevere as she paced back and forth in the council room. "It only takes a few to spread the rumor."

_No wonder Tristan was so out of spirits, _Guinevere thought. She hoped he hadn't heard the rumor, but Tristan wasn't blind or deaf. A part of her regretted pulling him into this. She had to keep reminding herself that he agreed to this.

"Is this really something I have to worry about?" she asked. "Does it change anything?"

Valden hesitated, taking his time to debate the situation. Guinevere saw through it as a way to make her nervous, and it only irritated her.

"It may create some dislike for Tristan," he said.

"Only to those who want to believe it," she argued. "What about the wed-"

The council room doors flew open and Clara nearly slipped to stop herself.

She curtsied out of habit as the words gushed from her mouth: "Tristan's been poisoned!"

0-0-0-0

Galahad heard the crash from Tristan's room in passing. It was peculiar enough since he heard something heavy hit the ground afterwards. He knocked on the door.

"Tristan?" He entered without waiting for a reply.

The knight lay in a twisted, unmoving heap on the ground. Galahad knelt by him. As he did so, his knee soaked up wine.

"Tristan!" He shook his friend, but he didn't respond. He was barely breathing.

Galahad grabbed Tristan, hoisting him over his shoulder. He stood with a groan. Tristan was not a heavy man, but his weight seemed heavier right now. _Like when someone is dead._ Galahad hurried out of the room and down to the healing rooms.

"Ciernan!" Galahad shouted for the healer. The man had better be there and sober . . .

Ciernan jumped up from a chair, bread crumbs spilling from his mouth. He took one look at who Galahad carried and brushed away the remnants of his meal.

"Dead?"

Galahad didn't bother to scowl. "Better not be." He set him on the table, with Ciernan easing Tristan down.

Tristan's skin was pale—graying even.

"He looks worse now," Galahad said. "I found him in his room on the floor." Ciernan stared at Tristan, a look on his face that Galahad could not decipher. Then the healer dropped his head over Tristan's chest, listening.

"What happened?" He began to lift up Tristan's shirt. "There's no blood."

Galahad shook his head. "I don't know. There was wine on the floor." He moved his leg, feeling the wet spot over his knee.

Ciernan looked sharply at him. "Wine? So he drank before this happened?"

A chill ran over Galahad's body. "He must have. Poison? Arthur was given something to make him sleep."

Ciernan shook his head. "This poison's meant to kill." In quick movements, Ciernan stripped Tristan of his shirt. The knight's chest looked just as pale and ashen as his face. "Get me some of that wine."

He began to mutter to himself, but Galahad bolted out the door and down the hallway. He nearly plowed over chambermaids and linens on the floor. With a skidding halt, he came to Tristan's room. The goblet lay on the floor, the wine spilt but for a small amount. The jug was in pieces, so this would have to do.

He spun around to find Clara in the doorway.

"Is everything all right, sir?" she asked with a curtsey.

"No," he said. "Tristan's been poisoned." Clara gasped. "Find Gawain and the Queen now."

He ran off, leaving Clara in the beginnings of hysterics.

The ashen pallor to Tristan's skin was darker now, so much so that Galahad feared the poison had already killed him. He stood frozen in the healing room.

Ciernan saw the goblet and took it from him. With one sniff his mouth curled, and he put the goblet aside. He went to work, furiously pulling little jars from his table of herbs, dumping little amounts in a mortar.

"Here, grind this," he said, passing it to Galahad with a pestle. He grabbed a small vial of liquid and added it to what Galahad ground in the stone bowl. The fumes of it drifted to his nose. Galahad coughed.

"Will it help him?" he asked. Ciernan grabbed another vial and added it to the bowl. The smell grew more potent and foul.

"If it's the poison I think it is."

"And if it's not?"

Ciernan didn't answer. He grabbed a bucket and set it by the table Tristan was on. Galahad stirred the mixture in the mortar. It was a thick syrup now. Ciernan held out his hand for it.

"Good. Help me sit him up," he said. Galahad did; Ciernan uncorked a small bottle, one Galahad recognized. They were smelling salts. He put it under Tristan's nose.

Galahad waited. Usually by now there would be some reaction.

"Breathe," Ciernan muttered.

A few moments later, Tristan stirred. His head rolled to one side, and his brow crinkled as he reacted.

"Hold him," Ciernan ordered, leaving Galahad to take the scout's weight. He seized the mortar and scooped a spoonful of the concoction. Then he put one hand to Tristan's mouth, squeezing his jaw open, and letting the syrup drop in. Tristan grimaced, and as if expecting that, Ciernan put the spoon aside and used both hands to close the knight's mouth. Tristan struggled weakly.

"Tristan!" came a cry from the door. Galahad could only focus on the queen's presence for a moment before he felt Tristan pull away. He held fast, following Ciernan's lead.

"Swallow it," Ciernan said, though Tristan showed no sign of really hearing him. The healer kept his hands like a muzzle over the scout's mouth until at last there was some sign of him swallowing.

"Is it really poison?" Guinevere asked, her eyes darting over the listless scout.

Suddenly Tristan coughed, and his body trembled. Ciernan grabbed the bucket—apparently expecting this too— and Tristan lost the contents of his stomach into it. The convulsion was violent; he had never seen any man vomit like that.

Tristan collapsed on his side. Galahad looked over his friend's features; his eyes were shut but they moved about beneath the lids. His chest rose and fell rapidly in quick, shallow breaths.

Ciernan set the bucket down.

"Will he be all right now?" Guinevere asked. She grabbed a cloth and wet it in a bowl of water. She dabbed it at Tristan's mouth.

"We'll see," Ciernan said. "This is just the first dose."

"Of the herbs?" Galahad asked. Ciernan nodded.

"The herbs don't mix well with the poison," he explained. "So we keep giving it to him until he doesn't react anymore." Galahad saw Guinevere glance at the bucket.

Ciernan got another spoonful of the mixture ready.

"So soon?" he asked, but the question earned a glare from Ciernan.

Guinevere came to his side and helped support Tristan. Ciernan pried his mouth open and fed him the medicine. Tristan began to shift.

"Hold him," Ciernan ordered, and he shut Tristan's mouth forcefully. The scout bucked, not even lucid, but fighting against the horrid concoction.

Tristan swallowed, but he kept twisting back and forth, his arms straining to claw at Ciernan's hands.

"It's all right, Tristan," Guinevere said, trying to sound calm. Galahad felt the hollowness of her words; she didn't know any more than Galahad did if this would end all right.

Tristan coughed, but Ciernan kept his hand over his mouth. "All the way down," he muttered.

Galahad had smelled the medicine; he couldn't imagine how bad it must taste. It had to be horrible based on Tristan's reaction.

The scout thrashed. Guinevere moved to his legs, leaning over them and pinning them down.

"When can we—" she began.

Ciernan grabbed the bowl, cuing Galahad to turn Tristan over. The scout threw up again. Galahad shut his eyes at the sound. The cure was almost worse than the poison.

Ciernan insisted on another dose. And another after that. And then one more, when Tristan finally stopped throwing it back up. The knight stopped moving, except for breathing.

The healer sighed. "I think that will do."

Tristan's chest was back to its normal color now. Guinevere pulled a blanket over him, though beads of sweat dotted the scout's chest. Galahad sat down wearily.

"You found him?" Guinevere asked. He nodded. "Thank you."

He looked her way with a frown. Did she think he wouldn't have done anything? Tristan was a brother to him—an older, annoying brother at times, but still . . . .

The queen took up the wet cloth again and dabbed it over Tristan's forehead. She brushed his bangs aside. In her actions, Galahad caught a glimpse of care beyond what he expected. He knew Guinevere and Tristan were committed enough to do anything for the kingdom and Arthur. But this was beyond that. This was genuine.

He smiled softly before covering it up.

0-0-0-0

"A man came to Clara and told her it was a gift for Tristan, from you," Gawain said. He had tracked down Clara, finding her crying and fearful in the laundry area. "She didn't think anything of it."

"Did she not recognize the man?" Guinevere asked. Gawain shook his head.

"No. She fears now we think she's like Hathwyn," he said. Guinevere sighed. "But she did not know what it was, and since it was for Tristan she did not question it."

Guinevere swore, some words Gawain couldn't quite make out. It was in the Woads' language.

"Instead of killing me, they're targeting my betrothed," she surmised aloud. Gawain nodded in agreement.

"We have to find them, soon."

These attacks could not continue. Even married, Guinevere and Tristan would still be targets. Based on what they'd seen so far, it would not stop. Not until whoever was behind this was dead, or he succeeded in his goal.

Gawain glanced at Tristan. Guinevere hadn't left his side. From the looks on her face and Galahad's, he gathered it was a close brush with death for Tristan.

Gawain clenched his jaw. He despised this violence. He was used to years of people trying to kill him and the other knights as a group, on principle, but this—this deliberate attempt to assassinate just one of them—was too much. He hated intrigue and conspiracy. And he was in the middle of it now.

Looking to his friend, he made a promise to hunt down the one trying to usurp the throne.

0-0-0-0

He was hungry as soon as his senses came to him, but for some reason he felt averse to the idea. Tristan frowned. He let his eyes open.

He was in the healing room. The frown deepened. There was a bucket on the floor. A flash of memory came to him, using that bucket . . .

Something moved next to him. He stiffened, on the defensive. But from the feminine yet confident stance, he could tell it was Guinevere. She read a letter, apparently engrossed enough in it not to realize Tristan was awake.

Another memory came to him, drinking something in his room. He remembered falling down. And then he could taste something, the memory so strong that he felt like it was in his mouth. Some thick, foul thing . . .

"Tristan," Guinevere called softly. He looked her way. "How do you feel?"

He gave her a tired smile.

"Do you remember what happened?" she asked.

"Something I drank," he said, though he suspected there was more to it. Guinevere nodded and looked away from him.

"Poison," she said quietly. Tristan repeated the word in his mind. Him? Poisoned? _You're getting sloppy then._ "A man gave Clara the wine, saying it was for you from me. I guess we've been so caught up in protecting me that she didn't consider the dangers for you."

"And there I figured you were being thoughtful," he said with a smirk. Guinevere stuttered.

"Thoughtful? With the wine?" She shifted in the chair, until realizing he was toying with her. She fixed him with a playful glare. "Well, now you know better."

He chuckled, making his stomach ache too easily. He put a hand to it.

"Are you feeling ill?" she asked, standing and grabbing a wooden bucket. He shook his head. "Food then?" He shook his head again.

"Water," he said simply. She stood and retrieved a cup that was already filled. "Can you sit up?"

He did, and was rewarded with more nausea, but he willed himself to take it in stride. Guinevere must have seen some weakness there, for she placed her arm behind his back as he sat up, helping to support him. With her left arm, she brought up the cup to his lips.

He drank, flickering his gaze between her and the water.

She set the cup down. Tristan took in the chair she retreated to, and the letters, a blanket . . . It appeared she stayed by his side for awhile. Tristan glanced to the rest of the room. The healer wasn't around, nor was Galahad or Gawain.

Someone coughed just outside the shut door. Tristan recognized it—_Galahad_. _Good._ The queen was still protected—he certainly did not think of himself as much of a protector.

"How long ago did it happen?" he asked.

"Yesterday, mid-day," she said. His eyes went to the window. Though shut, he could see darkness in the cracks to the outside. It was night. More than a day he had been ill. _It could have been worse._ "Gawain is currently issuing new orders for the guards and chambermaids regarding our safety."

Tristan frowned. If Gawain was talking about it to others, there would be questions about what happened, and that would lead to rumors – "Does everyone know what happened?" he asked. Guinevere nodded.

"You know how news travels here," she said. "There is a lot of speculation now too."

"About what?" he asked. Guinevere hesitated. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"About if the wedding will still take place."

Tristan twisted himself around so he lay on his side, facing Guinevere a little less awkwardly.

"Why wouldn't it?" At his question, Guinevere merely shrugged. He smirked. "You think I'll not do it, because of the poison?"

"It's certainly something you should think about. I would not blame you."

"I'm still planning on the wedding," he said, and he saw her smile, though her eyes went to the floor.

She cleared her throat. "We should wait a little longer, until you feel better."

"Keep it the same," he said. "I'll be fine by then." It was only four days away, and though Guinevere shot him a look that questioned his confidence in so speedy a recovery, Tristan did not want a delay. Perhaps a little too rooted in security again, he did not want any delay to signal that the assassin had any effect on him, or Guinevere. They had to move forward.

"You should rest more," she said. "Are you sure you don't want a little bread? Soup?"

Tristan shook his head. "Maybe in the morning."

Guinevere nodded and leaned back in her chair. She pulled the blanket about her.

"You don't have to stay here," he said. Guinevere opened her mouth to protest, but then stopped. She fidgeted with the frayed edge of the blanket.

"I want to." She would have said more, but something made her stay quiet. Tristan did not push her for an explanation. He just stayed still while she punctuated her declaration with pulling his blanket back over him. Tristan rested his head on the simple bed, and closed his eyes as Guinevere brushed the cool side of her hand over his tattooed cheek.

0-0-0-0

A scuffle of feet above her barred window drove dirt and leaves down into her cell. Hathwyn looked to the window with longing. One ray of sunshine lit her cell. The prison was damp and cold, but it was her home now. It was decided by the council of the kingdom—really, just men and a few women that the queen trusted. Her punishment was imprisonment for an undecided amount of time.

It was better than death. Hathwyn sincerely regretted her actions, but even more so that for all she did it was useless. Her brother was dead; she was disgraced and imprisoned; and the king was dead.

A breeze blew through the window. It was chilly, but with it came the unmistakable scent of bread. Fresh, hot bread. The window was up at the top of the cell, and at ground level for the free streets outside. Hathwyn stepped up to the window, willing to be taller. She glanced at the side of her cell. Uneven rocks in it gave her an idea. She braced her hands on the wall and stepped up on a stone that stuck out. Carefully, she reached up and pulled herself higher.

She managed to peek above the barred window ledge. She gasped. The sight was the most excitement in her miserable existence of late. People scurried back and forth, on to their everyday lives. Selling goods, buying goods, minding children, doing chores.

She missed her freedom.

The people scurried to the sides of the pathways. In came a caravan of horses and a single carriage. The men mounted on the horses were dressed richly, but not so richly as the man in the carriage.

Hathwyn's breath stopped in her throat. The man in the carriage—she knew him! He was the same man she'd seen before, who had given the ultimatum to drug the king or lose her brother!

Her fingers gave way and with a yelp Hathwyn fell on the floor of her cell. But she paid it no heed, instead scrambling to the cell door.

"Please! I must see Sir Gawain or Tristan!" she shouted. A guard down the hall glanced her way but did not stand. "Please! I know who it is!"

She shook the bars of her cell.


	12. Ambush

a/n: Thanks for the feedback, Mandamirra10 and silverwolfneko-chan! Did anyone else read the last chapter? I was a little disheartened by the lack of response, but oh well. Thanks for reading!

0-0-0-0

There were more spectators than usual today. Actually, whenever he or the other knights sparred, no one bothered watching. But there was a crowd today.

Tristan ducked under Gawain's blade, the force of his swipe over his head making a swoosh through the air. Quickly, Tristan twisted his wrist and blocked another attack. He spun away, though Gawain followed. Tristan brought up his sword, parrying once before knocking Gawain's sword aside and thrusting for his midsection.

Gawain grinned after he leapt back.

There was applause around them. Tristan groaned quietly.

"Playing to the crowd?" Gawain asked, quiet enough for Tristan to hear, and hopefully only him. He lunged with a new attack. Tristan defended himself.

"They never cared before," he said between breaths. As he ducked again, his eyes zeroed in on a few of the bar maids amongst the other townfolk watching.

"You weren't nearly king before."

Tristan grunted as Gawain kicked at him. He took the impact, going down to a knee-annoyed even more when the crowd gasped-and then launched back to his feet and swung at Gawain's neck.

"No one watched when Arthur sparred," he muttered. Gawain shrugged.

"Arthur never sparred after he was made king. Besides, all the excitement about the wedding, someone trying to kill you-you're a sight to be seen," he said. From his smile, Tristan knew he was being mocked. He attacked anew with enough energy that the smile on Gawain's face disappeared into intense concentration.

"Is this how it's going to be after I marry?"

"It certainly won't be how it is for me when _I_ marry," Gawain said. Tristan snorted at that.

"_If_ you ever marry."

Gawain stabbed at him for good measure.

The scout's muscles felt good after the match, although he felt a little more worn than usual. He attributed that to the poison, but his recovery was better than Ciernan hoped. Tristan sheathed his sword. Gawain stood by two goblets, draining one to quench his thirst. As Tristan neared, Gawain picked up the other goblet, his eyes meeting Tristan's. He took a sip.

"Are you going to try all my drinks?" Tristan chided, taking the goblet without waiting. He drank as well.

"I'd rather be safe."

"I'd rather you not risk your neck for me," Tristan shot back.

"You should have thought about that before your engagement."

The glare Tristan sent his way did not erase Gawain's smile. The knight seemed to take extra pleasure lately in rubbing in any annoyance to Tristan.

Footsteps came their way, hurried by the sound of their pace.

"Make way!" came a voice. Tristan could hear its urgency. The man running towards them was a guard Tristan recognized. The guard was out of breath but trying to hide it. He noticed the townspeople around them and drew close for only Tristan and Gawain to hear.

"It's a prisoner—the chambermaid," he said.

"Hathwyn?" Gawain asked. The guard nodded emphatically.

"We did not pay attention to her. She made such a racket—they all do down there," he said. "But she might be telling the truth."

Tristan stepped towards the man. "What truth?"

The guard gestured for them to follow. As he led the knights to the sub terrain cellars that served as the prison, Tristan tried to discern what the guard meant. Hathwyn might be telling the truth now? He scowled; he wasn't surprised if there was more she'd hidden. He should have insisted on pressing her further, forcing her to talk and suffer.

She scurried to her feet when she spotted him and Gawain. Her face bore slight indentations from the prison's bars. Had she been so earnestly waiting for them?

"My lords, please listen to me!" she said with such pleading that momentarily Tristan set aside his anger against the woman. "He is here!"

"Who?" Gawain asked, while the guard stood aside.

"Him! The one who killed my brother!"

Tristan felt a harsh chill run through his body. "Where?"

Hathwyn stepped over to the barred window near the ceiling of the cell. "Out there."

"Open the door," Tristan muttered to the guard without taking his eyes from Hathwyn. With a squeak, the cell door was opened. Hathwyn shrank away when Tristan entered the cell.

"Do you know who?"

She shook her head. Her eyes mirrored the despair and urgency the rest of her posture showed. "I saw him come into the town in a carriage with an escort."

Tristan froze. A carriage? With an escort? He looked to Gawain.

"The wedding," Gawain whispered. Just two days until the wedding, and the town was filling up with those who wished to witness and celebrate the marriage.

"When?" Tristan asked. He grabbed Hathwyn by the shoulders. The woman whimpered. "When did he come?"

"Yesterday."

Tristan looked sharply to the guard. The man shuffled about uncomfortably.

"It was about noon yesterday."

"Why did you not tell us sooner?" Gawain challenged him, but Tristan didn't bother. He knew why—Hathwyn is a prisoner. Who would believe her?

He grabbed her by the arm, pulling her from the cell. She should have been eager to leave, but the firm grip Tristan had on her arm must have made her fearful instead.

Gawain fell in step with Tristan.

"Guinevere has been greeting visitors all day," he said. Tristan knew that, and with that knowledge—and what Hathwyn saw—his heart cinched tightly. He had to get to Guinevere, now.

They ran to the council room, just as Valden came out, all smiles.

The smile vanished when he saw Tristan.

"Guinevere?" Tristan asked, pushing past the councilor.

"She's meeting with Bladud," he said. Tristan felt a fury go through him. _Bladud!_ He remembered how he'd treated Guinevere and insulted everyone. He charged into the room.

Guinevere was mid-sentence when Tristan pushed past the doors. Galahad immediately went on guard, but seeing Tristan and Gawain, he looked to them with some confusion.

Tristan surveyed the room. There were few others in the room with Bladud, but no one wore weapons. He glared in Bladud's direction before glancing to Hathwyn.

"Recognize anyone?" he said under his breath. Though frightened (most likely by his own intensity), Hathwyn's eyes swept over every face. They settled on Tristan's. She shook her head.

"Tristan?"

He turned to Guinevere. Though confused as everyone else, she did not seem upset. Tristan knew she trusted him and whatever reason he had for interrupting. He went to her side, motioning for Galahad as well.

"Hathwyn spotted the man behind the attacks," he said quiet enough that Bladud could only look their way curiously. "He's here. For the wedding." He didn't have to add that with this enemy in their midst, a wedding was most likely what he meant to stop—one way or another.

Gawain touched Tristan on the shoulder. "We need Hathwyn to find him, without him seeing her and knowing he's caught."

Tristan nodded. He glanced at Galahad then Guinevere. He hated how he felt; he was afraid, and he knew Guinevere could tell. He blinked and banished the emotion's trace.

"Guinevere, stay out of sight. If he's here, he has a plan," he said. She nodded, as did Galahad. Tristan caught her hand before Galahad whisked her away. He looked to their hands, brushing his thumb over her skin.

"It'll be all right," she said, filling in what he wanted to say but could not for his lack of certainty.

"Be careful," he said. She gave a slight smile and then their hands parted as she followed Galahad.

Tristan watched her leave, not moving until she left his sight.

0-0-0-0

Galahad kept one hand on his sword. His ears were finely tuned to the sound of the queen's footsteps. No other footsteps but their own echoed off the stone corridor to her chambers.

His heart raced; he recognized the feeling—as if he were preparing for battle. Battle surrounding his home was not something he liked. There had been too much of it lately. Staying at Hadrian's Wall was really his only choice, but one he favored. Going home—well, home in Sarmatia did not exist anymore. And at least in Britain, he was free. His future children would be free too.

But freedom could be taken. Galahad's fist tightened around the hilt of the sword.

He pushed open the doors to Guinevere's chambers, barely slowing as he passed through and surveyed the first room. Everything was in place, normal. Guinevere followed him in. He took a step towards her bedroom until he heard her behind him. Changing his mind, he turned to the doors, closing them and blocking them from opening with a chair.

That's when he heard a heavy step from Guinevere's bedroom.

He whirled around, taking in Guinevere's wide eyes as she probably noticed his too. From her bedroom came one, two—no, five men. Their swords were drawn, except one man. He had a confident swagger, and Galahad recognized him instantly.

_Falerin!_

He could not think more on that before his body jumped into action. He kicked aside the chair he'd just placed by the doors.

"Go!" he shouted to Guinevere, and then stood in front of her, a buffer from Falerin and his men. Falerin grinned knowingly.

Guinevere opened the doors, but instead of her fleeing footsteps, he heard her gasp. Galahad spared a glance over his shoulder. Three more men stood there, men he did not recognize.

They attacked at once and in unison with Falerin's ambush.

Galahad pivoted away from one attacker and stabbed him through the heart. He jumped back again, seeing Guinevere wrestle away from one man's grasp. She managed to take his sword too. Galahad felt their odds improve.

Just barely.

"We're under attack!" Galahad shouted, hoping someone would hear, but the words were cut off as one of Falerin's men lunged at him. He had to defend, and with it his breath was spent quickly. Three others came at him, blocking his view of Guinevere.

He heard her shriek.

"Tristan!" she screamed, no doubt praying he was near.

With a surge of defiance, Galahad charged through the men, driving them aside. Guinevere was pinned to the floor, her hands being bound by two men.

And then, he felt a hard hit to his head. Instantly, he fell to his knees. He clutched at his head, trying to stay awake enough to stall these men.

Someone kicked him in the stomach, making Galahad fall to his side. Falerin loomed over him. One of his men stood by his side. He raised his sword, ready to drive it through the knight. Galahad waited for death.

"No," Falerin said. "Leave him alive. I want them all to know who their future king is."

He smirked, and then kicked Galahad in the face.


	13. Devotion

a/n: Shamefully long-overdue, I know. But I hope the story is still interesting to you. Please read/review. And be patient with me as I finish this up. Thank you!

0-0-0-0

Gawain helped Galahad to his feet. The youngest knight was sluggish, his head obviously bothering him. He stammered between the waves of pain as the details came out.

Falerin. The man behind everything. The Saxon attack. Arthur's death. And now, Guinevere's abduction.

Tristan did not say one word. He put a hand on Galahad's shoulder, and walked out of the room.

"Are you all right?" Gawain said, hesitating to take a step to follow Tristan. Galahad nodded.

"Go."

Tristan walked ahead, his pace quick but steady. Gawain caught up. He glanced to Tristan, watching for some reaction aside from the silence. But Tristan gave none. His face was unreadable.

"I'll call for Valden. He must know more about Falerin," Gawain said. He waited for a response from Tristan. It didn't come. "Maybe it will help."

Tristan turned towards the knights' quarters. Gawain stopped short when Tristan entered his room and shut the door behind him hard.

"I'll leave you alone then," he said to the empty hallway. Gawain hurried away, on to find Valden.

He felt full of dread the moment they realized Guinevere was missing. His first impulse was to run and search the town. Tristan, however, just looked murderous. Only for a moment, and then the expression turned to stone.

And since then, he had not said a word. He just listened. Moved. And whatever he was doing right now.

Gawain met Valden in the council room.

"Where would Falerin go?" Gawain asked.

"Are we sure it was him? Perhaps Galahad is wrong—"

"There's no mistake. Falerin arrived yesterday, and now he's nowhere to be found," Gawain said. "And Galahad knows who he saw. Falerin left him alive so we would know." He tried not to imagine the loss of Galahad if Falerin had decided to act differently.

Valden gave up his futile excuses. The man looked weary suddenly.

"He came so unexpectedly to court the queen before," he said, thinking aloud. "He was so eager."

"Now we know why," Gawain said. "He only wants the throne."

Fear filled Valden's eyes. "Do you think he will harm Guinevere?"

Gawain could not answer, despite what he thought.

"What can you tell me about Falerin?" Gawain pressed.

0-0-0-0

Tristan secured his bow to the pack on the horse. The stablehands were busy readying the animal, as they had been for several minutes as soon as Tristan had come in and without a word just gestured to the horse.

He wished his old Sarmatian horse was alive, and not another casualty of Falerin's war.

He clenched his hands.

"Tristan."

It was Gawain. The knight surveyed the weapons and horse before Tristan.

"You're going after them," he stated. Tristan didn't bother confirming that. "The rest of the men aren't ready."

Tristan flashed him an annoyed look. Gawain sighed.

"You weren't going to wait for anyone."

Tristan checked his armor. The throwing knife was in its place. A dagger rested at his hip, and as if to double check, he reached for his sword, just touching the hilt to confirm it was tucked correctly away.

"You cannot go alone."

Tristan took the reins of the horse.

"Say something," Gawain said, stepping in his way and taking the reins from him.

"Move," he said. Gawain rolled his eyes.

"We will go after her," Gawain said. "We'll find her. But you have to think this through."

Tristan yanked the reins from Gawain's hands.

"I have."

He stepped into the stirrup and swung his body atop the horse.

"Tristan—"

"The more time you spend in my way, the worse her chances are," Tristan said. "I will follow while the trail's fresh. You and Galahad ready an army."

"What will you do if you find them?"

Tristan didn't hesitate. "Save her, and kill them."

"You'll get yourself killed."

He did not tell Gawain that he knew that would most likely happen.

"I'll delay them, until you come to my rescue." He flashed a humorless smile.

"This isn't a time for rash measures," Gawain still argued.

Tristan's new horse pawed at the ground, mirroring his own urgency. "It's a time for action."

Gawain slowly nodded.

"Valden said Falerin lives to the east, south east of Corbridge. He lives in an old fortress outside of an abandoned outpost. It's been in his family line. "

"How many live there?"

"We don't know, nor about their loyalties."

He would find out. He nudged his horse forward.

"Will you take no one with you?"

Tristan shook his head. "I'll mark the path I take."

Gawain sighed. "We'll come as fast as we can."

He nodded. He kicked his horse forward, which sprinted a few bounds before Tristan pulled back on the reins. He turned back to Gawain.

"If I fail, you get her back safe. Risk everything if you have to." His eyes bore into Gawain's.

Gawain looked up at him on the horse. "I promise."

0-0-0-0

She couldn't see anything, which unnerved her more than she already was. Falerin and his men had put some hood over her head. She pulled at the ropes binding her wrists behind her. They did not give at all.

Her kidnappers traveled swiftly. She did not know how long now, but she had awoken in the back of some wagon. Quickly, she remembered what happened. She hoped Galahad was alive.

When she first stirred, someone next to her pushed her down.

"Give us no trouble, your _highness_," he sneered. She was under guard. The wagon hit the uneven ground, jostling her into the guard. He only pushed her back again, snickering.

She tried to keep herself calm.

_You__'__re__ the __queen!__ Do__ not __panic!_ She tried to reason with herself that she was in great peril here, and panicking was a valid reaction, but she thought of Tristan.

_Stay__ strong._ He would come. She did not doubt it. And he would do anything to save her. Fear seized her heart. She knew he would sacrifice himself if necessary, and that's not what she wanted.

She ground her teeth together, and willed herself to be alert. She had to be ready, for any chance she—or Tristan—could seize to escape.

0-0-0-0

The path was easy to follow, and it did lead south east. Falerin and his men moved quickly, not discreetly. There were a few parts of the trail that might confuse Gawain's party, so Tristan cut a cross into a tree trunk with his sword there.

But his mind stayed on a conversation he'd had with Guinevere.

_"If they captured you, they would make use of it."_

_"Like using me to hold the kingdom hostage?" Guinevere asked. _

_"I think to force you to marry, so there would be a legitimate king."_

_"If that ever happened, I would sooner take my life."_

He clucked his tongue, urging his horse faster.

0-0-0-0

The fortress that was in Falerin's family wasn't much to look at, but it stood at the heart of a small village. Tristan waited out of sight, watching.

It seemed an ordinary enough village. People, chickens, horses, daily life . . . but he couldn't imagine that all were privy to or in support of Falerin's scheme. Yet there had to be some who were. Undoubtedly there were many who were keeping watching for a rescue party.

Tristan spotted some men herding sheep towards the village. He grabbed a coat tied to his saddle, throwing it and a hood over himself for some disguise. The horse he turned loose.

The sheep herders glanced his way as he approached. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, but the coat and hood covering him must have looked suspicious still.

He nodded at the herders.

"You're not from here," one immediately deduced. Tristan shook his head.

"Traveling through," he said. "What town is this?"

He fed them a lie about looking for a place to stay the night, and walked with them into the town. He even helped with the sheep, keeping a straggler with the group. It helped him get inside town without drawing too much attention.

He hoped.

The herders pointed him in the direction of a lone tavern that had a couple of rooms to rent. He headed that way, then kept going until he was closer to the fortress.

Falerin's fortress was run-down. But it was still the main fixture in this village. From what the herders mentioned, Falerin was the lord of the village. He couldn't decide if the men feared Falerin or respected him, or were indifferent. But they did not seem alarmed at Tristan's presence. Maybe that pointed to some hope for a rescue amongst people not all hostile to Arthur's kingdom.

0-0-0-0

Falerin's grip on her arm made Guinevere wince, but she felt proud not to cry out when he flung her to the side of a square stone room. They were in the bowels of some old building, a fitting place for what looked to be a dungeon. The stone room was divided in two by a wall of iron bars, and a heavy door guarded each cell.

"You'll suffer for this, I swear," Guinevere muttered. Falerin laughed heartily.

"My dear queen, you're not in any position to threaten." As if to illustrate it, he opened one of the cells' door and pushed her inside. But at the last second, he held onto her hand, making her snap back towards him. In that moment, he pulled her forward and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Guinevere pushed against him, gaining enough space to break the horrid kiss.

"You fiend," she hissed.

Falerin smirked. "Has your betrothed even had that pleasure? It would not surprise me if not, given it's just an arrangement you've made up."

Guinevere glared at him. She nearly spouted back some retort, but she realized he was baiting her.

"My men tell me he's already behind us. He came quickly," he said. "Perhaps he's more devoted to you than I thought."

"I don't expect you to understand any sort of devotion to anyone but yourself," Guinevere said. Falerin laughed again.

"We'll just wait for him then. I have a use for the devotion he holds for you."

He looked her over from head to toe in a manner than made Guinevere's skin chill. But she held firm, her chin raised defiantly until Falerin left.

It was then that she discovered how dark the stone room was, with only torchlight from the hallway beyond her freedom leaking in beneath the door.

Falerin's words echoed in her mind.

She closed her eyes. _Tristan,__ be__ careful._


	14. Surrender

a/n: Hey, look, an update! I might just finish this yet!

0-0-0-0

Falerin returned sooner than Guinevere would have liked. She stood firmly in the center of the room, purposely not moving as he came closer. As she saw him now, she wondered that she ever found Falerin handsome. Everything about him seemed dark now.

"Queen Guinevere," he started, a self-assured, mocking grin on his face, "will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

Guinevere narrowed her eyes at him in answer.

"What? I think you favored me at one point, did you not?" Falerin said.

"Don't flatter yourself," she answered, and instantly knew she'd fallen for his bait to draw her into his web.

"It's not flattery if it's truth." He flashed a charming smile her way, but the next instant, it was gone. His expression hardened. "Let me put it simply then. We _will_ marry."

"What power do you think you hold over me?" she said. "You already murdered my husband. I would sooner die than betray his memory by marrying you."

Falerin suddenly reached for her and seized her by the wrist. He yanked her towards him, and Guinevere couldn't stifle a yelp. Her body crashed against his, and he gripped her tighter when she struggled.

"You say that. Such a noble thought. It's easy to say you welcome death when you think it won't happen," he said. "Maybe you do welcome it. I wonder if you still would if you knew it wasn't just your life that I hold in my hands?"

Confusion swept over her. Falerin grinned.

"Come!" he shouted, but his eyes never left Guinevere's. He watched for her reaction, and Guinevere felt her resolve crumble when she saw Falerin's men bring in a struggling Tristan.

A metal collar was clasped around his neck, connected by chains which Falerin's men held. They stood on either side of Tristan, making it so he could not move far without being jolted back the other direction. His hands were chained in front of him as well. Even so, Tristan dug his feet in with each step he was forced to take.

When his eyes met Guinevere's, he faltered. Guinevere felt her heart ache.

"Welcome, _Sir_ Tristan," Falerin said. "Your betrothed was getting lonely."

_No, not Tristan._ Guinevere's mind raced back to Falerin's threat. He had leverage now, and Guinevere's hopes for rescue lay dashed before her. She felt defeated even before Falerin continued:

"Your highness, I'll ask you again. Will you marry me?" he said.

"No!" Tristan shouted, and instantly the men pulled forward on the chains, sending Tristan to his knees. Falerin kicked him in the face.

"Stop!" Guinevere shouted, but Tristan was already struggling again. Falerin kicked him, this time in the ribs. Tristan moved back as far as the slack on the chains allowed, and rolled up on his feet. His eyes were wild; Guinevere knew that look. It was anger and bloodlust, which she'd seen when he wanted to take revenge on Hathwyn.

But she knew they had no advantage here.

Falerin gestured to the other cell, and his men drove Tristan inside. They threaded another chain through an iron ring in the ceiling and locked it to the chains around Tristan's wrists.

Tristan sought her with his eyes.

"Don't give in," he said. The fire behind his gaze spoke volumes of his determination.

The men pulled on the chain, suspending Tristan until he could not touch the ground. He did not waver.

Guinevere felt her stomach roll. He knew what was about to happen, but he wanted her to stay strong.

She did not know if she could watch.

The men began to beat him.

-0-0-0-

Once inside the town, Tristan bypassed the tavern or any lodgings that the shepherds mentioned. He kept to less populated shadows and passages, all the while looking towards Falerin's fortress.

For every guard he saw, he knew two more were watching. The guards paced in plain view, but were heavier in concentration near a heavy iron gate. The gate was closed, of course. From one spot by a fruit merchant, Tristan could see the horses and wagons of a recent party.

_Guinevere._

He circled to the other side of the fortress. In the watch towers, guards looked to the treeline surrounding the town. They looked too early for Gawain and the army; Tristan estimated it would take another day and a half, at best, before they arrived.

And in the meantime, he just did not know Falerin enough to know what Guinevere might be facing.

On his way back around the fortress, he took in other details. A stable was attached to the west side of the fortress. The roof of it was shabby and weak. At the front, the iron gate would take the strength of two horses to lift. And the gardens around the south side of the fortress were over grown and overrun with weeds.

He removed his hood before going toward the tavern. A cool wind brushed across his beard. His hair flew in his face. He swept aside some errant strands and entered the tavern.

Once inside, he instantly felt the eyes of several people. _Good. _He obviously was a stranger. Acting somewhat discreet, he settled next to an average citizen, or so he appeared.

"What can you tell me about Lord Falerin?" he asked quietly.

"What?" the man replied loudly, a little inebriated. "What about him?"

It only took a few more questions with no real answers before he heard a sword being drawn behind him.

Calmly, Tristan turned around and faced Falerin's spies. He eyed his opponents; it wouldn't take much to kill them, but not today. Today, he had to lose, and be captured. It would get him closer to Guinevere, and buy them both time.

-0-0-0-

His shoulders felt like they were going to separate. Tristan debated if it was the swinging of his body that worsened the pain, or the hits that Falerin's men took turns dealing.

"Wait," he heard Falerin say. Tristan tried to steady his breathing so he could hear more. Footsteps shuffled about. From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Falerin go near Guinevere. She was locked behind the heavy door of her cell, but the iron bars that separated his and her cells afforded Tristan a view.

"I'll let you think about how painful I can make his death," he said. Guinevere wouldn't look at Falerin. But she wasn't quite looking at Tristan either. _Don't give in,_ he thought. "Or he can have a decent life ahead of him. Probably here in this cell, but he'd be alive."

Guinevere closed her eyes.

"Maybe he can convince you," Falerin said, flickering a look Tristan's way. "If you won't marry me, really you're no use. I could just kill you."

"Why don't you?" Guinevere asked hollowly.

Falerin shrugged. "It would be easier on the kingdom if you were still around. If you supported me publicly with our marriage, it might be enough to avoid a few months of battles. But I'm prepared either way. The Saxons would be eager to come back and help."

Tristan managed to glare at Falerin, not that the man cared.

Falerin reached through the barred window in the cell door and stroked Guinevere's cheek. She stepped away. He laughed and nodded to his men.

The chains suspending him suddenly went slack, and Tristan fell to the stone floor.

The door to his cell shut firmly, and Falerin and his men left.

Tristan slowly rolled to his side and pushed himself to his hands and knees. His arms shook from the effort.

"No, don't," Guinevere admonished gently. "Rest."

Tristan crept towards the iron bars separating them until he could lean there. Guinevere knelt on the other side. She reached through the bars and held him the best she could. Tristan relished her comfort.

"Why did you come?" she asked.

Though exhausted, he gave her a sharp look.

"You did not have to, certainly not alone," she said.

"I couldn't risk what might happen to you." He wasn't about to mention that he purposely let himself be captured. He didn't have the energy for the argument that would bring.

"What happened to Galahad?" He heard the fear in her voice. Tristan reached with his chained hands to grasp hers.

"He's fine," he said. She released a breath she'd been holding. "He and Gawain aren't far behind."

"So you have a plan?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. He slid back down to the floor, lying on his back. The metal collar around his neck chaffed against his skin.

"Well, what is it?" Guinevere asked. Tristan raised his head to see her better.

"Rest."

He smiled at her exasperated sigh.

0-0-0-0

"He left a clear path," one of the scouts reported. Gawain's horse pawed at the ground.

"Let's keep moving. Quickly," he added, though he didn't need too.

Galahad was at his side. There was a look of determination on his face that Gawain hadn't seen in some time. He would have teased him about it, maybe if things weren't so grim.

Their forces moved slowly. Gawain spared little at Hadrian's Wall; he planned to eliminate Falerin and any who schemed with him in one fell swoop. Valden did not like the meager defenses remaining at the Wall, but the kingdom didn't lie there; it lie with Guinevere.

"How do we know if she's alive?" Galahad asked. He spoke in hushed tones, aware of the soldiers around him.

"We'll fight Falerin no matter what."

Galahad thought about what his friend was not saying. Whatever grim conclusion he'd reached, he shifted his line of thought.

"And Tristan?"

Gawain remembered Tristan's farewell. There was no confidence in his own survival. There seemed to be more confidence in his death. But the promise between them was all that mattered.

"We focus on Guinevere. We get her back."

There was no room for argument, and no desire for one. Galahad kicked his horse forward.


	15. Escape

a/n: Wow, for some reason, pulling teeth is easier than me finishing this story. Anyway, thanks for the encouraging reviews that get me back to the keyboard.

0-0-0-0

"You will not!" Tristan shouted. Guinevere rarely heard him shout, but she found it a bit diverting, despite his angry tone.

"I will do as I wish, and you should bite your tongue!" she shouted back. She couldn't resist a smile there, remembering how he'd bit through his tongue before when they escaped an attack in the woods.

"You are the Queen—" he started, and Guinevere cut him off.

"Then grant me the respect I deserve!"

In the distance she heard footsteps coming towards the cells. Tristan nodded slightly to her.

"Respect is earned, and you would throw it all away. Have you no courage?" he continued. They had been arguing loudly for a quarter of an hour easily, maybe more. Now word had reached Falerin, or so they hoped.

"I do, which is why I will do what I must," Guinevere said.

Tristan pretended to glower at him. "You condemn me to a life of imprisonment."

"At least it is life."

"I would rather have death!" he shouted.

Falerin appeared, and Guinevere let her head turn sharply towards him as if she'd just now noticed him.

"My, my," Falerin said. "Trouble?"

Tristan stepped away from the bars and cell door. He went to the chain hanging from the ceiling and seized it with his hands.

"I will not be used against you," he said. He wrapped the chain around his neck. Guinevere gasped; she knew this was coming, yet the violent determination in his eyes still startled her.

It startled Falerin too.

"No!" He and two guards made haste to the cell door, fumbling with iron keys to unlock it. Quickly, Falerin threw the door open. Tristan wrapped the chain once more around his neck and lifted his legs from the ground. He choked as his weight hung himself.

One of the guards rushed to Tristan and lifted him awkwardly while the other guard tried to unwind the chain from Tristan's neck. Tristan struggled against them, kicking out frantically. Guinevere continued to shout and plead with Tristan, waiting for that pivotal moment—

And it came. The guard fumbled with a key to unlock the chain in hopes of easing its hold on Tristan's neck. Guinevere held her breath, silencing her protests enough that Falerin looked her way. His eyes met hers, and they widened as he realized too late their ruse.

Tristan lashed out as soon as he was free. He took the chain—free from his wrist—and flung it at the guard, then the second. The chain hit the first guard and stunned him enough so he fell to the ground. The second guard jumped back. Tristan charged him, chain in hand as a weapon.

"Guards!" Falerin shouted. Guinevere pushed herself closer to the bars to warn Tristan, but Falerin retreated, rather than face a fight.

Tristan dodged swiftly to the side as the remaining guard attempted to fight him. He wrapped the chain around the man's neck, and Guinevere grimaced when she heard a squelched sound come from the man's throat, followed by a sickening snap.

"Falerin," Guinevere said. "He ran."

"He'll be back," Tristan said. He picked up the keys and unlocked his other wrist and the metal collar around his neck.

"How much time do we have?" Guinevere asked. Tristan didn't answer. He quickly unlocked the door to her cell and took her hand. She felt him squeeze it purposely, and then they were off.

The fortress was hard to navigate, but Guinevere trusted Tristan as he turned left, then right, and down a hallway. She wanted to ask if he knew where he was going, but there were shouts throughout the fortress now. Falerin was rallying his men.

_But he was too cowardly to stay and fight himself._ She smirked. For all his threats, he still ran away.

Tristan slid to a stop across the stone floor. Footsteps approached them. He looked to the right, then leapt that way. Guinevere was pulled along behind him. A darkened stairwell, not wider than a person's hips, concealed them. Guinevere pressed against Tristan. She felt his arms tighten around her. Both held their breath.

Whoever was approaching passed by them.

Guinevere looked to Tristan. His face was so near hers. She was surprised that his warm eyes were searching her face.

And then he looked away, up at the narrow staircase.

"Come," he whispered.

-0-0-0-

The staircase could only have been used for servants, small ones at that. Tristan stumbled on one stair, but the narrowness caught him from really tripping further.

He could sense Guinevere's questioning their direction. They were going _up_ a staircase, not down to some main level where they could leave the fortress. But if he kept track of all the turns correctly, they were headed west—towards that stable he scouted before.

The only thing was, 'up' meant he would eventually have to come back down. _Better leave that for the last moment._ No need to worry Guinevere now, he figured.

He gripped her hand again, comforted by the physical reminder that she was there, and safe—or safer than before.

He stumbled again, this time from the ache from bruises at the hands of Falerin's men. He gritted his teeth together and pressed forward. They were near the end of the staircase.

It opened up into another hallway, this one lit with a mere torch. Tristan glanced around for danger. Carefully he stepped forward towards an open doorway. It led to some chambers. The room was weary, perhaps once quite fine and lavish, but now worn with dust and moth infestations. And yet, there was a fire lit in the hearth. At a desk, scrolls lay open.

Tristan eyed everything.

"This is Falerin's room," Guinevere whispered. Tristan nodded. He thought of what secrets might be here, perhaps reports of his forces, but now was not the time. He moved for two slim wooden doors, behind which sunlight streamed through.

He opened the doors and stepped onto a meager balcony.

Men hurried below them, shouting, scurrying, searching. Tristan saw the ridgeline of a roof below. The pitch led straight west.

"There," he said, pointing. Guinevere looked.

"There?!"

He smiled and climbed over the balcony wall.

The benefit of being on the higher roof tops of the fortress was that not many people looked up. Tristan and Guinevere crept along the pitch of the roof. Tristan stepped lightly, but he didn't slow his pace; there was only so much time left to get far enough away.

His chest tightened as they approached the west stable. There was no heavy gate here to prevent them from slipping into the town and hopefully beyond. He lay down on the roof and peered at the ground.

"I count five of them," Guinevere whispered, eyeing the meager number of enemies below. He nodded.

"This way," he whispered back, and began to climb down one side of the rooftop. Guinevere climbed close behind him, and they were nearing the edge.

Suddenly the roof under them cracked. Tristan had time only to look down at it before it gave way beneath him.

Guinevere shrieked. They fell, Tristan landing first with a dull thud on trampled hay, and Guinevere landing beside him.

The breath was knocked out of him, but he could hear men coming. He got to his feet. His body swayed, not ready to be standing yet. His vision swam slightly, but he made himself look for a weapon.

A pitchfork rested against a stable stall. He grabbed it and aimed it at the stable's open entrance as five, six, eleven men poured in.

"Get behind me," he muttered to Guinevere. He felt rather than saw her do as he said.

One by one, the enemy drew their swords. Tristan gripped the pitchfork.

And then Falerin entered. Tristan glared at him. How he wanted to run him through here and now. . . .

"A fairly pathetic attempt to escape, wouldn't you say?" Falerin said. "Kill him. She's not to be harmed."

Tristan lunged at the men, but then Guinevere shouted, "No!"

It distracted him enough that he looked her way, just as half the men engaged him in a fight. He corrected himself and started to fight back, but one man in his blindspot knocked at the pitchfork. Tristan lost his grip. He lunged for it, falling across the hay. His fingers touched the handle just as the tip of a sword touched his throat.

"Falerin, please!" Guinevere shouted. Tristan looked up at the sword bearer—Falerin himself.

"I gave you a choice, Queen Guinevere," he said. "And now he must answer for it."

Tristan glanced to Guinevere, giving her one last look. Falerin drew back the sword, ready to strike.

"I'll marry you!" Guinevere shouted desperately.

"No you won't-" Tristan said, but he was cut off from further objections by the sword's tip again.

"Come again?" Falerin prompted, though he heard her just fine.

Guinevere swallowed. Tristan sought her eyes, but she would not look at him.

"I will marry you. I'll do what you want. But only if you spare him."

Falerin slowly grinned. "Prove it."

Guinevere looked to be at a loss for what he meant. Falerin nodded at his guards, who took over around Tristan. Falerin approached Guinevere, step by step. She stepped back as he advanced.

"Prove it," he repeated. Tristan's stomach hardened sickeningly. Falerin took another step forward, and this time Guinevere stood still. Falerin drew closer until he was inches from the queen's face. Guinevere glanced at Tristan.

Falerin seized Guinevere by the chin.

"Look at me!"

She swallowed and did. And slowly she leaned forward enough to kiss the man.

Falerin's smirk was visible even as they kissed. Rage flooded Tristan. He glanced around for a way, any way, to get Guinevere free from here.

Then Falerin stepped back.

"We have an agreement." He turned to his men. "Up," he said, and they lifted Tristan to his feet. Tristan watched warily as others flanked Guinevere. Falerin grinned at Tristan.

"I'm going to enjoy the future," he taunted. "And your queen."

Tristan could not help reacting to Falerin's baited words. He struggled against the men, trying to get at the man. He imagined just squeezing the life from his neck, but it was not to be. Instead, Falerin lashed out and struck Tristan in the face. As his vision blanked for a mere moment, Tristan felt rather than saw Falerin's hands on his right arm. His body tensed, ready to fight back if it weren't for the guards' firm hold on him.

Falerin yanked on Tristan's arm and twisted it violently. A yelp came from his throat, just as he heard and felt his arm snap.

"No!" he heard Guinevere shriek. His broken arm throbbed with sharp stabs of pain. He instinctively cradled his torso over the arm, protecting it from being jostled as much as he could.

"You said he would be spared!" Guinevere shouted.

"He's alive, isn't he?"

Tristan shot a glare at the man, but Falerin was already walking from the stable.

"Take them away," he said over his shoulder.

Tristan groaned when the guards shoved him forward, not caring about the impact on his right arm.


	16. Future

0-0-0-0

Tristan ground his teeth together when he landed on the hard floor. His arm exploded with new pain.

Guinevere was at his side instantly. The door to wherever they were now shut heavily. Tristan noted they were being held somewhere different this time.

"Was this part of your plan?" Guinevere said, half teasing but he could hear the worry in her voice.

"Not my arm being broken," Tristan admitted. His mind was rushing with what to do next, how to adapt. He was tempted to analyze how things went so wrong, but it was pointless. He knew the risks.

Her fingers gently lifted his sleeve up over his right arm. He saw her eyes widen, probably able to see the effects of the break.

"There is nothing here to use to help it," she said. She was not a healer, neither was he, but they both knew the arm would have to wait. There was a sliver of fear within him about the arm healing completely. It was his sword arm.

He pulled the sleeve down.

Guinevere sat back.

She would not look him in the eye. Nor did she broach a new topic. What did they really have to speak of, now that their hopes were so destroyed? She would not voice it, but Tristan could not let it go.

"You didn't have to give into his demands," he said, his voice as quiet and calm as he could muster with the throbbing arm.

"It's done."

Tristan made himself sit up and shifted back until he leaned against a wall.

Guinevere circled the small chamber. A barred window drew her attention, and she peered out it.

"You know what he will do," he said, not giving up the subject.

"There is still hope. Gawain will come with an army," she said.

"Yes, but Falerin is ready. And he'll use you to keep Gawain from attacking." He remembered his words to Gawain, the promise he made Gawain make to rescue Guinevere if he failed.

"Gawain will do what is best for the kingdom," she said.

Tristan gritted his teeth. "_You_ are best for the kingdom."

The sounds from the town below filled the space between them. He locked eyes with her, hoping his intensity would get her to see reason.

"Falerin will keep using me against you," he said. "And you cannot let him. You are the queen, and—"

"I cannot let him hurt you either," she said.

"That doesn't matter—"

"Really? Do you actually believe it doesn't matter to me?"

"You have to look past that."

Guinevere glared at him.

"Would you ask me to do this if Arthur were in your place?"

Tristan felt his breath hitch.

"That is different. He is the king—"

"No." Her voice broke, but she hastily cleared her throat. "It's not different, Tristan."

"I'm not the king," he said.

Guinevere shook her head. "But I love you. And I cannot lose you."

Tristan wanted to break the gaze she had on him, wanted to look away. Cut off the emotion, and perhaps she could do what she had to. But he couldn't deny he felt that love from her, and for her.

She started to pace at his silence.

"If only you hadn't come on your own," she said. "Or at all."

"I would always come."

She scoffed. "I don't doubt it. Your duty is unfailing." He picked up on the resentment in her tone immediately.

"It was not duty that made me follow."

Guinevere stopped pacing. Her eyes searched for his meaning. He thought it was clear, but perhaps she doubted him. Words like this were not his strong suit.

He leaned forward to his knees and stood steadily. With one step he neared Guinevere, and with his good arm, he took her hand in his. Her hands were scraped and rougher than they should have been. He pulled her closer and moved his hand to her face. Her eyes shut briefly at his touch.

He kissed her, gently, softly. She kissed him back, and all arguments fell away. He felt warmth spread through him, though the cold despair still surrounded. He felt her fingertips graze his neck till her hand rested on his chest.

He pulled back, searching her eyes, and making sure she knew: He loved her too.

She smiled, just a slight expression, but he knew she understood.

-0-0-0-0-

Gawain pulled sharply up on the reins of his horse, coming to a skidding stop next to the scout.

"Report," he ordered, and he knew he sounded cross. Each hour that passed had only made him more anxious, and therefore less agreeable. Normally, Galahad would counterbalance his ill humor, but the younger knight was just as cross as he was.

He cursed Tristan's decision to leave alone as his scout reported obvious guards and soldiers within the town.

As his scout continued on about weapons and an obvious defensive front ahead, Gawain cursed the Saxons—no, Falerin—for taking Arthur's life in the first place, putting them all in this situation now.

He turned and rode back to the main body of the forces he led. The soldiers stilled and quieted as he spoke.

"Falerin means to take away the freedom we waited for from the Romans. The freedom we fought and died for with the Saxons. And the freedom King Arthur stood for, even when the Saxons tried to take the kingdom. That freedom lies with Guinevere, our queen. We will get her back."

The soldiers cheered. He drew his sword and nodded to two leaders.

"Take the right flank," he said to one, and pointing to the other, "and you the left. Wait for my charge."

He pulled Galahad aside. "You and I will find Guinevere."

Galahad nodded.

"At all costs, rescue the Queen," Gawain said.

He did not mention Tristan. He didn't have to. They knew what Tristan meant, the brother that he was. He hoped they would find him alive. But he knew his orders—orders from Tristan even.

Rescue the Queen.

-0-0-0-0-

"Your leaderless army has come for you," Falerin said. The smug tone was palpable. "They are readying to attack."

"Did you expect the people to stand idly by while you try to steal their freedom?" Guinevere asked. She stood stalwart in front of Falerin, though she had to admit she was grateful for the door that kept him away for now.

She heard Tristan stand behind her.

"Let her go," Tristan tried to reason. "Do it now before there is no going back."

Falerin laughed. "There _is_ no going back. Your queen promised to marry me, remember?" Guinevere felt a chill go through her. "All to save you."

He smirked.

"It's better this way, don't you agree? If I killed you, I would have no leverage over her. And she would do something foolish and eventually I would have to kill her." Guinevere glared at him. The casualness with which he spoke of killing her and Tristan, and of usurping the throne, made the anger within her rise.

"The people would rise up as soon as I drew my last breath," Guinevere said.

Falerin shook his head.

"No. Everyone's true character would show freely. Each man would scramble to put in power the leader they wanted. Think of your counselor, Valden. Wouldn't he quickly scheme to fill the throne?"

Guinevere couldn't refute that.

"And with all the people fighting over who they want on the throne, they will be easy to conquer," he said with a grin. "Of course, that's only what will happen if you die."

"The day is young," Guinevere said.

"Yes." Falerin signaled to a guard, who opened the cell. "And I intend to have a wedding by the end of it."

Guinevere's breath stuck in her chest.

"Today?"

Tristan bristled behind her, enough that the guard drew his sword.

Falerin grinned. He held his hand out to her.

"You'll marry me in front of your army. You'll denounce any attack as an attack on you."

Guinevere spoke without thought:

"Never."

Falerin nodded to the guard, who wasted no time in slicing the tip of his sword through Tristan's side.

Tristan twisted away and went down on one knee, but Guinevere saw the blood. She knew it was a minor wound—a warning—but that did not stop her from going to his side.

"Then Tristan's outlived his purpose," she heard Falerin say.

Tristan caught her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He shook his head, as if to argue with her—

Guinevere stood up. "Where will we wed?"

-0-0-0-0-

Gawain halted the charge just as they were within reach of the town. He slid from his saddle. His horse was jittery, sensing the battle just moments from erupting. But Gawain had to be still to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw.

High up on the balcony of Falerin's fortress stood Falerin himself. Beside him was Guinevere. And there was no mistaking Tristan, even from this distance.

The army around him looked to one another, and to Gawain, but he could not tear his eyes from the scene before him.

Falerin shouted down to them.

"Welcome! You've arrived just in time for the wedding!"

Gawain drew his sword, ready to charge through the walls before them.

"Guinevere, Queen of Britain, has agreed to make me her king," Falerin continued. "You will stand down, or be branded traitors."

Gawain huffed. Did the man really believe they did not see through the lie?

He focused on Tristan. He looked hurt, but still ready to tear Falerin's head from his body. Guinevere, on the other hand, looked lost.

_He's using Tristan against her_.

Gawain cleared his throat.

"We would be traitors if we allow the murderer of King Arthur to live another day!"

The army around him roared in agreement.

Falerin seemed unfazed.

"You will not obey me. Then obey your queen." He gestured to her.

Gawain's heart dropped as she stepped forward. Somehow, she seemed like she was looking for courage, and he could not help but think it was courage to bear bad news to him. His eyes went to Tristan again. Would his Sarmatian brother allow this to happen?

Guinevere began to speak.

"We have come so far to have our freedom. We have lost too many people to senseless bloodshed. The Romans, the Woads, the Sarmatians, the Saxons. Will we ever know peace, if we keep fighting?"

Gawain did not like where this was going.

"Lord Falerin has asked for my hand. And though he is responsible for the death of Arthur, I can see it will mean less bloodshed now, if you do not attack."

Gawain's gut clenched. He could see Tristan's head bow, whether in pain or defeat, he did not know which.

"As your queen, I command you now. Stand tall. This is not defeat. It is not defeat if a king dies. It is not defeat if a queen dies. It is only defeat if you do nothing to stop it."

Falerin's head snapped sharply in Guinevere's direction. He grabbed her by the arm sharply, and that's when Gawain saw Tristan attack the guard nearest him.

He lost not one moment before he yelled for the army to charge.

0-0-0-0

With a swift kick, Tristan managed to send a guard over the balcony. He slammed the left side of his body into another guard and ducked as someone swung a blade at his neck. Someone hit him in the back, and he stumbled forward.

He saw Falerin grab and drag Guinevere away. He didn't know where he was trying to take her, but Guinevere was putting up quite a fight. He noted briefly that she got free of Falerin's grasp enough to reach for a knife on a guard's belt.

_Good._

Someone seized him from behind. Tristan yelped at the arms crushing his broken one, but he fought back. He leaned all his weight backwards, throwing his captor off balance. He jabbed his good elbow into the man's stomach, and rolled away.

Again on his feet, he looked for Guinevere. He saw Falerin rushing off, and Guinevere follow.

"Guinevere, wait!" he called out, but she did not stop.

Tristan dodged another attack easily and ran after the queen.

He kept catching glimpses of Guinevere as he followed, slowed down here and there by oncoming enemy soldiers. He started to recognize where he was when a soldier screamed and charged him.

Tristan had no choice but to fight him. He punched the man in the gut, a weak hit given it was his left arm. Even swinging that arm made his broken arm twinge in pain. The hit didn't even slow down the soldier. He drew a knife and sliced at Tristan. Tristan spun away. The man's eyes flickered to the broken arm, and he attacked that side.

Tristan leapt back. He hesitated; fighting with his arms wasn't working well. The soldier came at him again, and Tristan kicked at the man's hand. His boot connected with the knife too, and it went sliding away on the floor. Tristan spun around and planted his boot solidly into the man's chest. The soldier fell to the ground.

Before he could get back up, Tristan kicked the soldier again, this time in the head. Once, twice, and the third time rendered the man to a black abyss.

Tristan checked his surroundings. This was the same area he and Guinevere came to when they tried to escape. Thinking about where he'd last seen Guinevere go, he knew where she was now.

Falerin had tried to get to his chambers, probably to try to run. Tristan knew the fight within Guinevere would make her follow. She was capable in any fight; but he worried for her. The thirst for revenge—for Arthur, their kingdom, herself—could unbalance skill if not kept in check.

As he approached Falerin's chambers, he heard her cry out.

Tristan charged in. Falerin and Guinevere fought, the former with a sword, and the queen with whatever she could get her hands on. She held an iron fire poker and swatted away Falerin's attacks. She thrusted the iron forward and managed to stab Falerin in the thigh.

Tristan looked around for a weapon of chance. On the desk was a small ornamental knife on a stand, a heavy stone of sorts, a chair—

Guinevere grunted as she fell to the ground. The iron fire poker clattered across the floor. She scrambled after it, but Falerin drew back to stab her.

Tristan settled for the closest item to him: the chair.

He flung it at Falerin and the chair hit him squarely. Falerin fell. Tristan grabbed the small knife next and turned back.

"You're not much help injured," Falerin taunted. "Do you think you'll still be alive when I kill her?"

Guinevere gasped. Tristan glanced her way and saw blood.

"Let's see who kills who," Tristan said. He risked a glance to Guinevere again. She was at her weapon, but she had one hand pressed against her side. He did not like the looks of the blood staining her clothes.

Falerin lunged forward, and Tristan barely had enough room to miss being run through. Falerin was quick to attack again, and Tristan ducked under the swing. He popped up and slammed the ornamental knife into Falerin's arm. The blade wasn't longer than his middle finger, but apparently it hurt enough. Falerin yelped and shrank away.

Tristan grinned too soon. Falerin, though wounded, was still able enough to lash out with the sword. The tip grazed Tristan's face.

He felt blood spill from his cheek bone.

Falerin grinned. "That marking on your face will have a scar covering it. Let's see if I can give you a matching scar on the other cheek."

Falerin lunged again. Tristan kicked at the blade, driving it upwards even though Falerin continued forward. The man collided against Tristan, pushing Tristan into the hard edge of the desk. The sword was between them, but Tristan could barely focus on it when Falerin's weight was on his right arm. He clenched his teeth together through the pain. Using his left arm as much as he could, he pushed back. But his crippled force was not a match for Falerin's weight.

His eyes flickered to Guinevere. She was on her feet, shaky, but the fire poker in hand.

Tristan garnered all the strength he could and pressed his hand into Falerin's throat. He heard the man gag, and felt the struggle subside just enough that Tristan struck Falerin in the face.

Falerin stumbled back, and Tristan kicked the man away.

Behind Falerin stood Guinevere, the dull but deadly poker in hand still. Falerin never saw her. As he fell back, Guinevere had only to brace herself for his fall. The force of his weight impaled his body on the poker.

Falerin wheezed. His eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling as he tried in vain to reach for the poker sticking out of his back.

Tristan, cradling his arm, stood and circled the man.

Guinevere faced the enemy. Tristan thought she might finish the job with the sword, or rebuke him as he died. But she just stood there, watching. The fire in her eyes stayed strong though, until Falerin stilled.

She finally looked away and at Tristan.

"You look like you need a healer," she said. Tristan shot her a warning look. He grabbed a cloth lying on a trunk and went to her side.

"Let me see," he urged her. She lifted her hand from the wound. It was deeper than he liked. He pressed the cloth against her side.

She hissed.

"Sorry," he said. He moved her hand back to hold the cloth in place.

"We need to find Gawain," Guinevere said. "And that healer for—"

He raised his hand to her face. She quieted, and he saw her features soften. Gently, he cupped her face, and placed a kiss on her forehead. She sighed contently. He leaned forward and let his forehead rest against hers.

-0-0-0-0

The town Falerin ran was quick to come out and denounce any loyalty to him. The people claimed he was a harsh lord, who ruled with fear. It was not hard to believe. But Tristan was not satisfied with that. He pointed Gawain and Galahad to Falerin's chambers.

In searching through there himself, Gawain found correspondence with the Saxons. That was not a surprise. However, he did find letters to men within the kingdom. Thankfully, none were too close to the queen, but it was disheartening.

It did provide a quick target list for confrontation. Most traitors were repentant. Tristan, however, was not so forgiving. Of the traitors who were unveiled, Tristan urged that six be executed. Guinevere agreed and ordered so on four of them.

Gawain stood on Hadrian's Wall, overlooking his home.

The guards had been whipped into shape by Galahad. Gawain was surprised at how quickly that had happened, but it was complimentary of the younger knight's skills.

The sense of fear was gone now. The general mood of the people here was one of moving on. Yes, they had been attacked. Yes, Arthur was gone. But there was a future.

The wedding was due to happen tomorrow. Gawain and Galahad delighted in teasing Tristan, mainly to lighten their moods considering all they had been through in the last few months. But there was a certain joy to be found in getting Tristan annoyed.

Gawain suspected though that the annoyance was a show. Despite all their rubs at becoming the king, being fat and lazy, or whatever else they could think up, Gawain knew Tristan was very nearly happy. For all the trials behind them, they only served to strengthen the bond between Tristan and Guinevere.

0-0-0-0

Tristan fumbled with his shirt. His right arm was not healed yet, and probably would not be for several weeks. He was ready to have two hands again. The simplest tasks were frustratingly elusive now.

"Let me help," Guinevere said, coming from behind him. She tied off part of the shirt and smoothed the cloth so it rested naturally over his shoulders. Tristan risked looking down at the shirt. The material was quite fine, part of several things made for him to be more suitable as a king.

He felt a bit foolish to have clothes so tailored, like he was a bride with a trousseau.

"I don't need the finery," he mumbled.

"It's just a shirt," she chided him. "And the last thing the kingdom wants is a king who is forgettable. Wear your usual shirts, and no one will remember you're king."

"There are better uses for people's time and money than this."

Guinevere smiled. "Spoken like a true man. You look handsome."

He considered that permission to change back to his familiar garb. She helped him pull the sleeve over his injured arm.

"Does it hurt much still?" she asked.

Tristan normally would have said nothing about any injury, but the quietness in Guinevere's tone made him reconsider. She was not a fellow soldier or knight to intimidate or impress with silence. Her concern meant something to him.

"Yes."

"The healer will want to know," she said.

"It will get better."

"Promise to go see him." Not even married yet, and she was already nagging him. Tristan nodded, and she let it drop.

He watched her move around the outer room of her chambers, straightening things and setting aside his newly tailored clothes. There were items of hers that she had moved, and the void left was obviously for him. It puzzled him at how things would change tomorrow. Somehow, the maids would unpack his one trunk of personal possessions and spread them about the room.

Tomorrow, this room would be his as well.

"I visited Arthur today," Guinevere said, breaking him of his thoughts. "I noticed you'd already been there."

He nodded.

"I figured I'd ask for his permission," he said. She smiled.

"He always approved of you."

"Not to replace him," Tristan said.

Guinevere shook her head. "No. But to succeed him."

Tristan looked at her curiously.

"His own mortality was something he left in God's hands," she said. "I thought that kept him from planning ahead. Except he did plan ahead. He asked you to take care of me."

Tristan knew he could dredge up doubts about Arthur approving of their coming marriage, and whether this was betrayal or not—they had debated it before, but for some time now, the issue did not bother him. Tristan, for once, was at peace.

She came up behind him again, and he turned just in time to take her hand in his.

"I always will take care of you."

She stopped, glancing at their joined hands. Tristan pulled her to him. The warmth of her against him was something he cherished already.

"Not because of duty or because it was what Arthur wanted," he added. "It's what I want."

Guinevere smiled. "And I."

She kissed him softly on the scar over his cheek, where he'd been cut. He closed his eyes at the feel of her lips. He felt her kiss him beneath that scar, and towards his mouth. He captured her mouth and kissed her fervently.

Tomorrow, they would marry each other. Tomorrow, they would continue their journey together. And while it had been a rocky one at first, Tristan couldn't shake the hope he felt for their future.

Together.

0-0-0-0-0

a/n: thanks for the reviews, and for enduring these long delays. Most likely, this will be my last story for some time. I probably could have made this much better if I had more focus on it, but it wasn't to be this time around. Even so, I hope you enjoyed it!


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